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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

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Shelf ...21.T4 Da^ 
_ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




















The Pastime Series. Issued Monthly. By subscription $3.00 per annum. 
Vol. 39. Apr., ’90, Ent’d at Chicago P. O. as second-class matter. 


LIBRARY 

f^Ealishc^ichoi^ 


of Lo 


A REALISTIC NOVEL 


ILLUSTRATED 


By EMILE ZOLA 




CHICAGO 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 


. 









































fv 


|he Pinkerton Detective Series. 

I N issuing these Detective Novels, the publishers have been careful to put out 
the best of the kind. Every book ;s a complete exposition of some real 
crime, which has been traced to the guilty person or conspirators by some 
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THE WHITECHAPEL MURDERS; or, An American Detec¬ 
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A LIFE FOR A LIFE; or, The Detective’s Triumph.By A F. Pinkerton 

A WOMAN’S REVENGE; or, The Creole’s Crime.By Myron Pinkerton 

THE SEVERED HEAD; or, A Terrible Confession.By F. Du Boisgobey 

THE STOLEN WILL; or, The Rokewood Tragedy.By Myron Pinkerton 

FILE No. 114; a Sequel to File 113.By Emile Gaboriau 

FRED BENNETT, The Mormon Detective.. .By U. S. Marshal Bennett 

SAVED AT THE SCAFFOLD; or, Nic Brown, The Chicago 

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$5,000 REWARD; or. Cornered At Last.By A. F. Pinkerton 

LINK BY LINK; or, The Chain of Evidence.By Nathan D. Urner 

TRACKED TO DEATH; or, Eagle Gray, the Western Detec¬ 
tive .By Morris Redwing 

THE GREAT TRUNK TRAGEDY; or, Shadowed to Austra¬ 
lia. A full and complete history of the celebrated Max- 

well-Preller case.By Morris Redwing 

DETECTIVE ACAINST DETECTIVE; or, A Great Con¬ 
spiracy . .By Morris Redwing 

A CRIMINAL QUEEN; or, TheFatal Shot.By Ernest A. Young 

MARKED FOR LIFE; or, The Gambler’s Fate.By A. F. Pinkerton 

DYKE DARREL, The Railroad Detective; or The Crime of 

the Midnight Express.By A. F. Pinkerton 

A SHARP NIGHT’S WORK.;.B; *ames Franklin Fitts 

THE DETECTIVE’S SECRET.By Nathan D. Urner 

MANACLE AND BRACELET.By Edmund . trong 

THE GREAT CRONIN MYSTERY; or, The Irish Patriot 

Fate.By A Chicago Detectivb 

MEXICAN BILL, The Cowboy Detective.By’‘N evada Ned” 

A PRIVATE DETECTIVE: The Marvelous Career o* a Note 

rious Criminal.By Lieut. John D Shea of t le Chicago Police 

THE ROBBER KING: Thrilling Episode in a reer of 

Crime.By Detective Patrick Ty ell, the hicago Police 

THE ICEPOND MYSTERY, The Startling Story o Terri 

rible Crime.By Lieut. Joseph Kipley, -f the Chicago Police 

THE RUNAWAY WIFE; or, Love and Vengeance.. - / Captain Simon O’Dow 
nell, of the Chicago Police. 

rv DARING HORSE THIEF..By Detective Pat k Ryan, of the Chicago Police 
THE ONE-HANDED BURGLAR; or, The Tragi Fate f a 

Desperate Criminal.By Lieut. Edwa d Laughlin, of the Chicago Police 

THE MAIL ROBBER; or, The Clever Capture a Dis¬ 
honest Postal Clerk.By James E. Stewart, Chief Inspector Post Office Dep'r 
THE STOLEN LACES; an Episode in the History of Chi¬ 
cago Crime.By Denis Simmons, Ex-Chief of the Chicago Police 


The above books are handsomely bound, in lithographed covers, and an, 
fully illustrated. They are for sale on all railroads, at all bookstores, or will bs 
mailed, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, 

800-205 Jackson St. CHICAGO, ILL 

































THE LATEST WORKS 

OF THE 

MOST POPULAR AUTHORS. 

NANA. .By Emile Zola 

LA TERRE.By Emile Zola 

L’ASSOMMOIR. .By Emile Zola 

NANA’S DAUGHTER; A Reply to “Nana M . . ..By Emile Zola 

THE DREAM.By Emile Zola 

POT BOUILLE (Piping Hot).By Emile Rola 

THE LADIES’ PARADISE.By Emile Zola 

THROUGH MIGHTY WATERS SAVED, A Romance of the 

Johnstown Flood..By Duke Bailie 

THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE.By Mrs. Henry Wood 

THE MISSING RUBIES.By Sarah Doudney 

AN ACTOR’S WIFE. By George Moore 

BROKEN VOWS.By Mattie Dyer Britts 

THE BLUE VEIL..By F. Du Boisgobey 

TANGLED LIVES; or, United At Last...,.By <4 THERON” 

A GOLDEN HEART.By Bertha M. Clay 

MAY AND JUNE.By Edward R. Roe 

FROM THE BEATEN PATH. By Edward R. Roe 

G. A. R.; or How She Married His Double.By Edward R. Roe 

DR. CALDWELL; or, The Trail of the Serpent.By Edward R. Roe 

FETTERED BY FATE.By Emma S. Southworth 

JERRY BLEEKER; or, Is Marriage a Failure.By R. C. Givins 

THE MILLIONAIRE TRAMP.By R. C. Givins 

A WIFE’S PERIL. By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

A WOMAN’S LOVE.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

HER FATAL SIN.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

THE TRAGEDY OF REDMOUNT .By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

THE WIFE’S SECRET.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

FOR A WOMAN’S SAKE.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

A HEARTLESS WOMAN.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

WHO WILL SAVE HER?..By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

A DESPERATE WOMAN.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

ALLAN QUATERMAIN.By H. Rider Haggard 

SHE.By H. Rider Ha ggard 

KING SOLOMON’S MINES...By H. Rider H aggard 

MR. MEESON’S WILL.By H. Rider Laggard 

GOTHAM AND THE GOTHAMITES; or, The Gay Girls 

of New York.By P. C. Valentine 

LADY VALWORTH’S DIAMONDS.By The “ Duchess” 

MILDRED TREYANIGN.By The “Duchess’' 

WEE FOLK OF NO MAN’S LAND; or, The Indian 

Maiden’s Faith.By May M. WetmoRe 

MY QUEEN...By Mrs. Godfrey 

COWARD AND COQUETTE.By Mrs. Fairman Mann 

A DARK SECRET.By Eva Catharine Clapp 

A HOUSE PARTY, AND THE BLUE CURTAINS.By“OuiDA”^ 

CHECKERED LIGHTS; or, The Sheriff’s Daughter.By Fulton Gardner** 

AGAINST FATE.By Mrs. M. L. Rayne 

BOUND BY A SPELL..By Hugh Conway 

MORGAN’S HORROR.By Geo. Manvillei’Fenn 

CAUGHT IN A CORNER; or, A Terrible Adventure.By G. W. Waters 

AS IN A LOOKING GLASS..By F. C. Philips 

THE UPLAND MYSTERY; A Tragedy of New England.By Mrs. M. R. P. Hatch 

A FROLICSOME GIRL.By John C. Wallis 

COURT ROYAL; or, Pawn Ticket No. 210.By S. Baring-Gould 

FORCED APART; or Exiled By Fate.By Morris Redwing 

The above books are bound in handsome lithographed covers, in four colors 
‘l'ney are for sale on all railroad trains, at all book stores, or will be mailed on 
receipt of price, by the publishers. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, 

203-205 Jackson St, CHICAGO* 




























































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The St. Agnes Procession. 




























































































































































































































































































































































































































Dreams 






































































Angelica and the Bishop. 









































































































































































































































































A DREAM OF LOVE 


A REALISTIC NOVEL 


By EMILE ZOLA 

Author of “ Nana,” “ La Terre,” “ L’Assommoir,” etc. 


Translated from the French by Count Edgar de V. Vermont 


AUTHORIZED EDITION 


Copyright 1890 
By LAIRD & LEE 


& VYWGHT ' 




7 18.9C 

IX i 


^ASHING "* 0 


CHICAGO: 

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 
1890 





EVERY LADY IN THE LAND 

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LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, jackISn street. CHICAGO. 







THE DREAM 


CHAPTER I. 

During the severe winter of i860 the river Oise 
froze over, and the plains of Lower Picardy were cov¬ 
ered with great masses of snow, heaped up by a rude 
northeaster, which nearly buried Beaumont on Christ¬ 
mas day. The storm began in the early morning, 
redoubled in fury toward evening, and the snow drifted 
all night long. 

In the upper town, where the north fa<pade of the 
transept of the cathedral stands, as though ensconced, 
at the end of the “ rue des Orfevres,” the white mass, 
driven by the wind, beat against St. Agnes’ door, the 
old Romanesque gate, almost Gothic in style, richly 
ornamented with sculptures, under the barrenness of 
the gable. 

The next day, at dawn, the snow there was nearly 
three feet deep. The street still slept, weary with the 
feast of the night before. Six o’clock struck. In the 
darkness,'which the slow and persistent fall of the 
flakes tinted with blue, a single indistinct form seemed 
alive, a little girl of nine, who, sheltered under the 
arch of the door, had passed the night there, shiver¬ 
ing, and protecting herself as best she could. She was 
clad in a thin, ragged, woolen gown, her head wrapped 
in the remnant of a scarf, and her bare feet ill protected 
by heavy man’s shoes. She had evidently been stranded 
there after long wandering through the town, and had 



6 


THE DREAM 


sunk down on that spot from sheer weariness. For 
her, it was the end of the earth; no more people, no 
more anything, the last abandonment, the hunger that 
gnaws, the cold that kills. And, in her weakness, as 
if choked by the heavy weight of her heart, she finally 
ceased to struggle. Nothing remained in her but the 
physical recoil from death, the instinct to move about, 
to bury herself behind those old stones whenever a 
squall whirled the snow about. The hours dragged 
slowly. Between the double wings of twin bays, she 
had leaned against the wall where a pillar supports 
a statue of St. Agnes, the thirteen-year-old martyr, a 
little girl like herself, with the palm and the lamb at 
her feet. In the tympan above the lintel is portrayed 
in high relief, with naive faith, the whole legend of the 
child virgin affianced to Jesus: her hair, which suddenly 
became long and clothed her, when the Governor, 
whose son she refused, sent her naked to the stake, the 
flames of which, diverted from her form, burnt the 
executioners as they lighted the pile; the miracles of 
her bones: Constance, daughter of the Emperor, cured 
of leprosy; and the miracles of her painted images: 
Paulin, the 1 priest, tempted by a woman’s thought, 
offering, under the Pope’s advice, the emeralded ring 
on his finger to the statue, which stretched its stone 
hand, then withdrew it, keeping the ring, still to be 
seen there, and thus freeing Paulin from his obsession. 
At the summit of the tympan, Agnes is at last received 
in a nimbus into Heaven, where her affianced, Jesus, 
weds her, so small and so young, impressing on her 
lips the kiss of everlasting delights. 

But when the wind rushed through the street, the 
snow whipped her face, and .white heaps threatened to 
bar the threshold; then the child pressed closer to the 
virgins hewn in stone above the* stylobate of the 
splayed door. These are the companions of Agnes, 
the saints who form her escort: three on her right — 
Dorothea, nourished while in prison with miraculous 


THE DREAM 


7 


bread; Barbe, once immured in a tower; Genevieve, 
whose virgin sanctity saved Paris; and three on her 
left—Agatha, with her disfigured and distorted breasts; 
Christina, tortured by her father who cast her own 
flesh in her face; Cecilia, of whom an angel was en¬ 
amored. Above these, still more virgins, three ser¬ 
ried ranks of virgins, rise with the curves of the key¬ 
stones and fill in the three arches with a florescence of 
chaste and triumphant flesh; below, martyred and 
tortured; above, welcomed by a host of cherubim, 
enraptured into ecstacy in the midst of the celestial 
abodes. 

When eight o’clock struck and the light came out 
brighter, there still stood the unprotected child. Had 
she not shaken it off, the snow would have reached 
up to her shoulders. Behind her, at the foot of the 
gray facade, so smooth and so bare that not a flake 
remained on it, the antique door was covered with 
snow as though decked with an ermine vestment, white 
as an altar. Especially were the tall saints on the splay 
clothed with it from their white feet to their white hair, 
dazzling with candor. Higher up, the scenes upon the 
tympan, the little saints on the arches, were brought 
out in bold relief, outlined with a ray of light against 
the sombre background;, and so on, till the final 
apotheosis was reached — the marriage of Agnes, 
which the archangels seemed to celebrate beneath a 
shower of white roses. Standing upright on her pillar, 
with her white palm and her white lamb, the statue of 
the virgin child, the immaculate snow figure, had the 
ineffable whiteness of purity in that immovable stiffness 
of cold which froze around her the mystic outburst of 
victorious virginity. And, at her feet, the other, the 
poverty-stricken child, wrapped up in snow, stiffened 
too and so white as to seem of stone, could no longer be 
distinguished from the tall virgins. 

A shutter, however, thrown back with a clatter 
against one of the sleeping house-fronts, made her raise 


8 


THE DREAM 


her eyes. It was on her right, on the first floor of the 
house adjoining the cathedral. There, a beautiful 
woman, a dark-haired matron of about forty, featured 
with all the correct serenity of marble, had just leaned 
over; and, in spite of the terrible frost, having seen the 
child stir, allowed her bare arm to remain a short 
instant outside. A compassionate wonderment sad¬ 
dened her calm face. Then, with a shiver, she closed 
the window. She bore away with her the rapid vision 
of the fair little waif with her violet eyes, under the 
ragged scarf, her drawn face, her slender, lily-like neck, 
her sloping shoulders, her little hands and feet turned 
blue and numb by the cold, with nothing living about 
her but the thin vapor of her breath. 

The child had mechanically remained face upward 
gazing at the house, a narrow, very old, one-storied 
house, built toward the end of the fifteenth century. 
It stood sealed, as it were, to the flank of the cathedral, 
between two buttresses, as a wart that might have 
grown between the mighty toes of a colossus. And, 
thanks to this bulwark, it had been wonderfully well 
preserved, with its stone base, its wooden-faced story, 
studded with protruding bricks, the frame of the roof 
advancing a yard over the gable end, its turreted stair¬ 
case jutting out from the left angle, where the narrow 
window still retained the lead casing of its early 
builders. 

Old age, however, had necessitated repairs; the tile 
roof dated perhaps from the time of Louis XIV. It 
was easy to recognize the work done about that period: 
a dormer window pierced in the acroterium of the tur¬ 
ret; little wooden frames replacing the primitive glass- 
work; the three bays affixed to the first floor reduced 
to two, that in the middle being closed in with bricks, 
so as to bring the fa$ade into symmetry with the other 
more recent buildings in the street. On the ground 
floor, the modifications were quite apparent: an oaken 
door with mouldings replaced an old iron-covered door, 




THE DREAM 9 

under the stairway; and the large central arch, the 
lower part, the sides and the top of which had been 
cemented so as to leave only a rectangular opening, 
formed a sort of large window instead of the ogive bay 
which formerly extended to the sidewalk. 

Bereft of thought, the child was still looking at that 
venerable and well-kept master-workman’s home, and 
mechanically reading upon a yellow sign-board nailed 
on the left, near the door, these words, painted in old 
black letters: “ Hubert, Chasuble Maker,” when she 
was once more attracted by the noise of a shutter pushed 
open. This time it was the shutter of the ground-floor 
window. A man bent out, with worried countenance, 
beak-shaped nose and prominent forehead crowned 
with very thick hair, quite white already, in spite of his 
being only forty-five years old. He, likewise, examined 
her for a while, a pained expression showing itself 
about his compassionate mouth; then, through the 
little greenish panes she saw him stand still for a while. 
He turned round and made a gesture; his wife re¬ 
appeared, looking ever so beautiful. Neither seemed 
to move, but, side by side, they looked at her with 
profound sadness, as if unable to remove their gaze. 

For four hundred years had the lineageof the Huberts, 
embroiderers from father to son, dwelt in this house. A 
master chasuble-maker had it built under King Louis 
XI.; another had it repaired under King Louis XIV., 
and the present Hubert embroidered chasubles under 
its roof, as all the others of his race had done. At 
twenty he had fallen in love with a young girl of six¬ 
teen — Hubertine; and so deep was his passion, that, 
upon being refused by her mother, the widow of a minor 
judge, he had eloped with and then married her. She 
was marvelously beautiful — and that was all their 
romance, their joy, their misfortune. When, some 
months later, the young wife came to her dying moth¬ 
er’s bedside, the latter disinherited and cursed her, and 
the shock was so great that her only born came to life 


10 


THE DREAM 


and died on the same night. Since then, in the ceme¬ 
tery, in her grave as it were, the stubborn mother 
seemed still relentless, for the couple never had any 
other child in spite of their passionate yearning. After 
twenty-four years they still mourned the one baby 
they had lost, but now they indeed despaired of ever 
unbending the dead woman’s wrath. 

Troubled by their steadfast gaze, the little one had 
shrunk behind the pillar of St. Agnes. She also 
became anxious as the street awakened, the shops 
opened, and the people began to stir. This “ rue des 
Orfevres,” the end of which runs up against the lateral 
fagade of the church, would be without outlet, blocked 
as it is along the apsis of the cathedral by the 
Huberts’ house, were it not that the “ rue du Soleil,” 
a narrow lane, throws it open on the other side, run¬ 
ning along the lateral wall as far as the grand fagade on 
the “ Place du Cloitre. ” Two early worshipers passed 
by, casting a surprised look upon the little’ beggar, 
quite unknown in Beaumont. The slow and steady 
falling of the snow continued; the cold seemed to 
increase with the bleak day; one heard nothing but a 
far-off rumble of voices under the dull thickness of the 
great white shroud which covered the town. 

Still, wildly shy and ashamed of her homelessness 
as of a fault, the child was trying to hide herself fur¬ 
ther, when suddenly she saw before her Hubertine, 
who, keeping no servant, had gone out to fetch a loaf. 

“ My little one, what are you doing here? and who 
are you? ” 

She did not answer, out only hid her face. But she 
could no longer feel her limbs, her whole being was 
fainting away as though her heart, turned to ice, had 
stopped beating. As soon as the good lady had 
turned her back with a gesture of discreet pity, the 
girl sunk down helpless on her kfiees, and slipping, 
limp as a rag, in the snow, let the flakes silently bury 
her. The lady was now coming back with the hot 


THE ©REAM 


II 


bread in her hand, and, noticing the child crouching 
thus on the ground, once more approached her. 

“ Come now, my little one, you cannot stay longer 
under this door.” 

Then Hubert, who was now standing on the 
threshold of their house, taking the bread from her 
hands, said: 

“ Take her up, bring her in! ” 

Hubertine, without replying, bent down and raised 
the child in her strong arms. She no longer stirred, 
carried about like a thing inanimate, her teeth clenched, 
her eyes closed, quite cold, and as light as a little bird 
fallen from its nest. 

They went in; Hubert closed the door, whilst 
Hubertine, loaded with her burden, crossed the front 
room used as a parlor, where some yards of embroi¬ 
dery hung on exhibition in the large square window. 

She entered the kitchen, the old-fashioned" common 
room," preserved almost intact, with its ceiling beams, 
its flagstones mended in twenty places, its wide, stone- 
encased mantelpiece. On the shelves, the kitchen 
utensils, pots, kettles and pans, such as were used one 
or two centuries back; old crockery, old stoneware, 
old tins. But filling the chimney-hearth, was a mod¬ 
ern cook-stove, a large cast-iron one with bright brass- 
work. It was red hot; one could hear the water 
bubbling in the boiler. A saucepan full of coffee and 
milk was heating at one end. 

“ Zounds! it is more comfortable here than outside,” 
said Hubert, laying his hand on the heavy Louis XIII. 
table which occupied the center of the room. 

“ Put that poor little dear near the stove, and let her 
thaw herself.” 

Hubertine was already seating the child, and both 
watched her come to herself again. The snow on her 
clothes melted, and fell in heavy drops. Through the 
holes of the rough shoes one could see her little bruised 


12 


THE DREAM 


feet, while her thin woolen gown marked the rigidity 
of her limbs, that pitiable body of misery and pain. 

She gave a long shiver, opened her astonished eyes, 
with the start of an animal waking up to find itself 
entrapped. Her face seemed to force itself back 
under the rag tied beneath her chin. They thought 
her right arm maimed, so tight did she press it, mo¬ 
tionless, against her chest. 

“ Be not afraid, we will not hurt you? — Where do 
you come from? — Who are you? ” 

As they spoke to her she became more and more 
frightened, looking behind her as though expecting to 
be struck. She glanced furtively around the kitchen, 
at the flagstones, the pots, the shining utensils; then 
gazed out, through one of the irregular windows re¬ 
maining over from the suppressed bay, looked all over 
the garden as far as the trees of the Bishop’s Palace, 
the white outlines of which peeped over the back wall. 
She seemed amazed to see there on her left the cathe¬ 
dral again, with the Romanesque windows of its apsis. 
And, shivering afresh, in spite of the heat of the stove 
slowly penetrating her, she lowered her eyes to the 
floor without sirring. 

“ Do you belong in Beaumont? Who is your father?” 
they asked. 

Noticing her silence, Hubert just thought that her 
throat was too parched to answer. 

“ Instead of questioning her,” said he, " would it not 
be better to give her a good, warm cup of coffee? ” 

The suggestion seemed so opportune, that Hubertine 
at once handed the child her own cup. While she was 
also cutting two thick slices for her, the child, still mis¬ 
trusting her new friends, slowly and sullenly recoiled. 
The torment of hunger was, however, too strong for her, 
and she began to eat and drink ravenously. 

Not to trouble her, the couple kept silent, moved at 
the sight of the little hand trembling so that it almost 
missed her mouth. She used only her left hand, her 


THE DREAM 


13 


right arm remaining obstinately glued to the body. 
When she had finished, she nearly dropped the cup, 
which she caught again with her elbow, awkwardly, as 
though crippled. 

“ You must have hurt your arm? ” asked Hubertine. 

“ Don’t be afraid, let me see to it, my dearie.” 

But as she touched her, the child, suddenly violent, 
rose and struggled, and in the scuffle put out her right 
arm; a little book, which she had been hiding against 
her bare skin, slipped out through a tear in her dress. 
She tried to regain possession of it, and stood with 
her fists clutched in anger at seeing those two strangers 
read it. It was a Ward’s book, an official record issued 
by the Administration of Assisted Children of the De¬ 
partment of the Seine. On the first page, under a 
medallion-shaped picture of St. Vincent de Paul, were 
printed the following formulae: 

Surname of Pupil —A mere dash filled the space. 

Christian Name — Angelica Mary. 

Born — January 22d, 1851 

Admitted —On the 23d of same month. 

Matriculating Number — 1,634. 

Thus, father and mother unknown; no papers of 
identity, not even a certificate of birth, nothing but 
this book, with its official coldness and its cover of pale 
pink cloth. Nobody and nothing on earth except a 
Poor House book; a numbered and classified waif. 

“Oh! a foundling! ” cried Hubertine. 

Then spoke Angelica, in a passionate outburst of 

fury: „ _ _ T 

“ I’m worth more than all the rest of you! Yes, I am 
better, better! I never stole from anybody; they steal, 
everything from me.” 

Such a helpless pride, such a desperate will to be the 
stronger, swayed her little womans body, that for a 
moment the Huberts were dumbstruck. They no 
longer recognized the fair-haired little stranger with the 
violet colored eyes, the long neck graceful as a lily. 


14 


THE DREAM 


The eyes had turned black in the wicked face, the 
sensuous neck had swollen with a flush of blood. Now 
that she was warm, she rose and hissed like a snake 
taken from the snow. 

“ So you’re a bad girl?” softly said the embroiderer. 

Why, it’s for your good that we wish to know who 
you are.” 

And over his wife’s shoulders he glanced at the 
book as she turned it over. On page two, the name 
of the wet nurse was given. “ The child Angelica Mary 
was intrusted, on the 28th of January, 1851, to the 
nurse Francis, wife of Goodman Hamelin, a farmer by 
occupation, living in the township of Soulanges, in 
the district of Nevers; the aforesaid nurse having re¬ 
ceived, as she took charge of the child, the first month 
of nursing fee in advance, plus a babe’s outfit.” 

Then followed a baptismal certificate signed by the 
Almoner of the Hospital of Assisted Children; then 
came the medical certificates, at the arrival and depar¬ 
ture of the child. The payments to the nurse, every 
three months, filled the columns of the four following 
pages, where each time appeared the illegible signature 
of the township treasurer. 

“ Why! Nevers? ” asked Hubertine. " Is it near 
Nevers that you were raised? ” 

Angelica, still flushed with anger at not having been 
able to prevent their reading, had once more fallen 
into a sullen silence. But rage loosened her lips, and 
she spoke of her nurse: 

“ Ah! Surely Mother Nini would have beaten you! 
She took my part, although she did often give me 
slaps. Ah! After all, I was not so miserable over 
there, with the cattle-.” 

Her voice seemed to grow hoarser as she went on in 
broken, incoherent sentences, speaking of the meadow 
where she used to lead Rousse, the old cow, of the 
highway where she played, of the cakes they cooked, 
of the big dog that bit her. 


THE DREAM 


i5 


Hubert interrupted, reading aloud: 

“ In case of serious sickness or of bad treatment, the 
sub-inspector is authorized to give the child in charge 
to another nurse.” 

Lower down, the book mentioned that the child 
Angelica Mary had been intrusted to Theresa, wife of 
Louis Franchomme, both florists, living in Paris. 

“ I understand,” said Hubertine, “ you were sick, so 
they brought you back to Paris.” 

This was not quite the case, however, and the 
Huberts learned the entire story, but only by drawing 
it out, bit by bit, from Angelica. Louis Franchomme, 
who was a cousin of Mother Nini, was obliged to 
return to his village for a month in order to recover 
from a fever; and it was then that Madame Theresa, 
becoming very fond of the child, had obtained per¬ 
mission to take her to Paris, where she bound herself 
to teach her the trade of an artificial florist. Three 
months later, her husband died, and, very sick herself, 
she found herself obliged to return to her brother’s, 
the tanner Rabier, established in Beaumont. She 
had died early in December, leaving in charge of her 
sister-in-law the little one, who, since then, abused and 
beaten, had suffered martyrdom. 

“ The Rabiers,” murmured Hubert, “ the Rabiers, 
yes, yes; tanners, near the Ligneul in the lower town 

_the husband a drunkard, and the wife not much 

better.” 

“ They treated me as a beggar,” continued the angry 
Angelica, enraged with suffering pride. “ They said 
that the gutter was good enough for me. After whip¬ 
ping me almost to death, she threw some food to me 
on the floor, as to a cat; and how often I went to bed 
without eating! Ah! I would have killed myself at 
last.” 

She made a mad gesture of despair. 

“ Christmas morning, yesterday, they drank; then 
they threw themselves upon me, threatening to gouge 


i6 


THE DREAM 


my eyes out with their thumbs, for fun. They did not 
seem to get along well after this — they began fight¬ 
ing, hitting each other such great blows — I thought 
them dead, fallen as they both were across the room. 
I had long since made up my mind to escape, but I 
wanted my book. Mother Nini used to show it to me 
sometimes, saying: ‘You see that? Well, that is all 
you possess; for, if you had not that, you would have 
nothing ! ’ And I knew where they had hidden it, 
since Mother Theresa was dead — in the top drawer 
of the big chest — so I jumped over them, I took the 
book, and I ran, I ran, pressing it all the time under 
my arm against my skin. It was too large; I thought 
that everybody could see it; that they would steal it 
from me. Oh ! how I ran and ran ! and, when the 
night was all black, I was cold under that door. Oh ! 
how cold I was ! I thought I was not alive any more. 
But I don’t care; I did not let it go, anyhow, for here 
it is ! ” 

And with a sudden bound, as the Huberts were just 
closing it to hand it back to her, she snatched the 
book from them. 

Then, sitting down, she dropped her head on the table, 
holding the book tight, and began sobbing, her cheek 
against the pink cover. A fearful humility overcame 
her pride; all her being seemed to melt in the bitter¬ 
ness of those few pages, with their worn covers, of this 
poor thing which was a treasure, the only link that 
connected her with the life of the world. She could 
not empty her heart of her despair, her tears ran with¬ 
out ceasing: and, under this crushing grief, the fair¬ 
haired waif once more showed her pretty face, a very 
pure, slightly elongated oval, her eyes of violet tint, 
made paler by emotion; the delicate slenderness of her 
neck, which made her resemble a little virgin in a 
stained glass window. Suddenly she seized Hubertine’s 
hand, and kissed it passionately with her lips eager for 
caresses. 


THE DREAM 17 

The Huberts were moved to the heart, and, almost 
in tears themselves, murmured: 

“ Dear, dear child! ” 

Then she was not as yet quite bad? Perhaps she 
could be broken of that violent temper that had so 
frightened them. 

“Oh! I beg of you, do not take me back to those 
people,” she faltered, “ do not take me back to those 
people.” 

The husband and wife looked at each other. It 
happened that, since autumn, they had been thinking of 
taking a resident apprentice, some little girl that should 
enliven the house so saddened by their regrets for 
their childlessness. And it was decided at once. 

“ Will you? ” asked Hubert. 

Hubertine answered slowly, in her calm voice, “ I 
am willing.” 

They immediately busied themselves about the 
formalities. The embroiderer went out and told the 
story to the Justice of the Peace of the Northern Dis¬ 
trict of Beaumont, Mr. Grandsire, his wife’s cousin, 
the only relative she had any intercourse with; and he 
took charge of the whole matter. He wrote to the 
office of Public Assistance, where Angelica was readily 
traced, thanks to her matriculating number; and he 
got leave for her to stay as apprentice to the Huberts, 
whose good standing was so well known. 

The sub-inspector of the district, as he came up to 
indorse the book, drew up the indentures with the new 
master, binding the latter to treat the child with kind¬ 
ness, to keep her in cleanliness, to oblige her to fre¬ 
quent both school and church, and to give her a bed 
to sleep alone. On the other hand, the Administration 
agreed to pay Hubert the usual fees, and to furnish the 
girl with an outfit according to rules. 

In ten days all was done. Angelica slept upstairs 
near the garret, in the upper room overlooking the 
The Dream 2 


i8 


THE DREAM 


garden, and she had already taken her first lesson in 
embroidery. Sunday, before taking her to mass, 
Hubertine opened the old chest in the work-room, 
where she kept her fine gold thread. She was hold¬ 
ing the book in her hand, and she put it at the bottom 
of the drawer, saying: “ Look where I place it. 
I do not wish to hide it, so that you may take it when 
you wish. It is better that you should see it, and thus 
remember. ” 

That morning, in entering the church, Angelica found 
herself once more under the St. Agnes door. There 
had been an incipient thaw the week before; then the 
cold had set in again so severely that the snow on the 
sculptures, half melted, had frozen in a florescence of 
clusters and spikes. All was ice; transparent robes 
and crystal lace clothed the virgins. Dorothea held a 
torch, limpid drops from which fell on her hands. 
Cecilia wore a silver crown which dripped liquid pearls. 
Agatha, her bosom torn by pincers, was veiled in an 
armor of crystals. And the scene on the tympan, the 
little virgins of the arches, seemed to have been thus 
for centuries behind the jeweled panes of a giant 
shrine. Agnes allowed her court mantle to trail, 
woven with light, braided with stars. Her lamb had a 
fleece of diamonds, her palm had taken the color of 
heaven. The whole gate was resplendent in the purity 
of that intense cold. 

Angelica remembered the night she had spent there 
under the protection of the virgins. So she raised her 
head and smiled at them. 


THE DREAM 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

Beaumont is formed of two boroughs separate and 
distinct; Beaumont l’Eglise, on the hill, with its old 
cathedral of the twelfth century, its See-house, which 
dates only from the seventeenth, with hardly a thou¬ 
sand souls, crowded, choked down in the narrow streets; 
and Beaumont la Ville, at the foot of the declivity, on 
the banks of the Ligneul, an ancient town, enriched 
by the prosperity of its manufactures of laces and 
lawns, so prosperous that it numbers nearly ten thous¬ 
and inhabitants, boasting of their squares and handsome 
District offices of modern elegance. The two can¬ 
tons— the northern canton and the southern — thus 
have hardly more than administrative intercourse. 
Although but thirty leagues from Paris— a two-hours 
journey—Beaumont TEglise seems still walled in by 
its ancient ramparts, of which, however, but three 
gates remain. A fixed population, peculiar to the 
place, leads there the same life lived by their ancestors, 
from father to son, for over five hundred years. 

The cathedral explains everything, gives birth to all, 
sustains all. It is the mother, the queen, huge above 
the little group of low houses, cozily sheltered like a 
brood under its wings of stone. The people here live 
only for it and by it; the trades labor, the shops sell, 
but to nourish it, to clothe it, to keep it and its clergy in 
prosperous condition; and, if one meets still a few scions 
of the well-to-do bourgeoisie, they are the last faith¬ 
ful ones of the vanished masses. The cathedral throbs 
from the center, each street is one of its veins, the 
town seems to breathe its breath. From it emanates 
that spirit of another age, that religious drowsiness 
belonging to the past, even to that cloistered city which 
hems it in, still redolent with an ancient perfume of 
peace and faith. 


20 


THE DREAM 


And of all that mystic gathering, the Huberts* house, 
where Angelica was to live, held most closely to the 
cathedral, as of its own flesh. The permission to build 
it there, between two buttresses, must have been granted 
by some by-gone prelate, anxious to retain the early 
ancestor of this generation of embroiderers as the head 
chasuble-maker to the vestry-rooms. Toward the south, 
the colossal mass of the church barred the narrow gar¬ 
den; first, the inclosures of the lateral chapels, whose 
windows looked down on the garden beds; then the 
projecting body of the nave, which the buttresses 
seemed to elbow; finally the vast roofs covered with 
sheets of lead. The sun never reached the end of that 
garden; the ivy and boxwood alone grew there vigor¬ 
ously; and yet that eternal shadow was very sweet, 
falling from the giant ridge of the apsis — a religious 
shadow, sepulchral and pure, which smelt good. Into 
the greenish half-light, the calm freshness, the two 
towers allowed nothing to fall but the peal of their 
bells. But the whole house shivered with it, sealed 
to those old stones, melted into them, living of their 
blood. It shuddered at the least ceremonies; the high 
mass, the roar of the organ, the voice of the choristers, 
even to the oppressed sigh of the faithful, buzzed in 
each of its rooms, rocked it with a saintly breath come 
of the invisible; and through the semi-heated wall, 
sometimes, even the vapors of the incense seemed to 
smoke. 

For five years Angelica grew there, as in a cloister, 
far from the world. She went out only on Sundays to 
hear the seven o’clock mass, Hubertine having obtained 
permission not to send her to school, where she feared 
evil associations. This abode, ancient and quaintly 
narrow, with its garden as peaceful as death, was her 
universe. She occupied a whitewashed room under 
the roof; she came down, mornings, to breakfast in 
the kitchen; she went up again to the work-room on 
the first floor, to work, and these chambers, with the 


THE DREAM 


21 


winding stairway of stone, in the turret, were the 
only corners she lived in, precisely the most vener¬ 
able corners, preserved from age to age, for she never 
entered the Huberts’ room, and seldom did more than 
cross the lower parlor, the two rooms which had been 
rejuvenated to the style of the period. In the parlor 
the rafters had been plastered — a palm-leaf cornice, 
framing in a rose, in the centre, ornamented the ceil- 
ing; the wall paper, with its big yellow flowers, dated 
from the time of the first empire, as did the white 
marble chimney-mantel, the mahogany furniture — a 
round table, a sofa, and four arm-chairs covered with 
Utrecht velvet. On the rare occasions when she had 
to renew the window display — a few bands of em¬ 
broidery hung there — if she cast a glance outside, she 
saw the same immutable vista, the street leading straight 
to the door of St. Agnes, a worshiper pushing the 
folding-door, which closed itself without noise, the 
always empty shops of the goldsmith and wax-chandler 
opposite, with their orderly rows of golden pyxes and 
high tapers. And the cloisteral peace of all Beaumont- 
l’Eglise, of the “ rue Magloire,” behind the See-house, 
of the “ Grand’ rue,” where the “rue des Orfevres ” 
ends, of the “ Place du Cloitre,” where the two towers 
rise, could be felt in the languid air, and came down 
slowly with the pale day on the deserted pavement. 

Hubertine had undertaken to complete the instruc¬ 
tion of Angelica. She had always held the old-fash¬ 
ioned opinion that a woman knows enough when she 
spells correctly and understands the four rules. But 
she had to struggle against a great ill-will on the part 
of the child, who, at lesson time, would look out of the 
garden windows, although there was indeed but poor 
recreation to be gained there. Angelica hardly be¬ 
came enthusiastic over her reading task, and, in spite 
of dictations culled from a classic reader, never man¬ 
aged to spell a page correctly; but she had a pretty 
handwriting, bold and firm, one of those irregular 


22 


THE DREAM 


hands of the grand ladies of the olden time. For the 
rest, geography, history, arithmetic, her ignorance re¬ 
mained complete. What was the good of science? To 
her, quite useless indeed. Later on, at the time of her 
first communion, she learned her catechism word for 
word, in such an ardor of faith that she astonished 
every one by the accuracy of her memory. 

The first year, in spite of their kindness, the 
Huberts had often despaired. Angelica, who gave 
promise of being a very clever embroiderer, discon¬ 
certed them by abrupt changes, inexplicable fits of 
laziness after days of exemplary application. She sud¬ 
denly became slack, greedy, stealing the sugar, her 
eyes heavy in her congested face, and, if they scolded 
her, she burst out in wicked answers. Some days when 
they tried to tame her, she got into a paroxysm of 
proud willfulness, stiffened herself, beating with her 
hands and feet, ready to tear and bite. Then a feeling 
of fear would make them recoil before this little 
monster: they were shocked at the devil which pos¬ 
sessed her. Who was she, after all? Where did she 
come from? Are not these foundlings nearly always 
the outcome of vice or crime? At two different times 
they determined to get rid of her, to return her to the 
Administration, distressed, regretting they had wel¬ 
comed her at all. But, then, these terrible scenes, which 
left the house quaking, always ended with the same 
deluge of tears, with the same exaltation of repentance, 
which threw the child on the floor with so intense a 
thirst for punishment, that they had to forgive and 
make up. 

Little by little, Hubertine’s influence grew on the 
girl. The worthy woman was made for this education 
with the good nature of her heart, her high-bred man¬ 
ner, firm and sweet, her correct judgment so perfectly 
balanced. She taught her the meaning of duty and 
obedience, opposed to passion and pride. She must 
obey God, her parents, her superiors, a complete 


THE DREAM 


23 


hierarchy of respect, outside of which ill-regulated 
existences destroyed themselves. Also, at each revolt, 
so as to teach her humility, she imposed upon her, as 
a punishment, some lowly task, to wipe dishes, to 
scrub the kitchen, and she remained near her until the 
end, keeping her bent over the flagstones, enraged at 
first, conquered at last. The passionate love of the 
child, the impulsiveness and violence of her caresses, 
made her likewise anxious. Several times did she 
surprise her kissing her own hands. She saw her 
work herself into a fever over images, little sacred 
pictures that she collected; and one evening she found 
her in a swoon, with tears in her eyes, her head fallen 
on the table, her lips glued to the images. There was 
again a terrible scene when they confiscated these: 
cries, weeping as though they were tearing her skin. 
And from that time, Hubertine held her severely, 
ceased to tolerate these abandonments, overwhelming 
her with work, surrounding her with silence and chilli¬ 
ness as soon as she felt that she was becoming ener¬ 
vated, eyes wild, cheeks burning. 

Moreover, Hubertine had discovered an educational 
help in the ward-book from the Public Assistance 
Office. Each time, when the DistrictTreasurer signed 
the book, Angelica remained saddened until night. 
An anguish seized her heart if by chance she saw it, 
when taking a spool of gold thread from the chest. 
And, on a day of infuriated naughtiness, when nothing 
could control her and she was upsetting everything at 
the bottom of the drawer, she became abruptly quelled 
at sight of the little book. Sobs choked her; she 
threw herself at the feet of the Huberts, in a great fit 
of humiliation, stammering that they had been wrong 
to pick her up, and that she did not deserve to eat 
their bread. Since that day, the thought of the book 
often restrained her in her furies. 

Thus it was that Angelica reached her twelfth year, 
the age of her first communion. The calm interior of 


24 


THE DREAM 


this little house, asleep under the shadow of the cathe¬ 
dral, perfumed with incense, throbbing with hymns, 
favored the slow amelioration of this wild outcast, 
snatched from no one knew where, replanted in the 
mystic soil of this narrow garden; and so did the 
monotonous life they led, the daily work, the utter 
ignorance of the world’s doings, not even an echo filter¬ 
ing through the somnolent neighborhood. But the 
true sweetening influence came from the great love the 
Huberts showed for one another, burdened as they 
seemed to be with an incurable remorse. He spent 
his days trying to efface from her memory the injury 
done by marrying her in spite of her mother. He had 
felt but too well, at the death of their child, that she 
accused him of that punishment, and he strove to be 
pardoned. Long since, that pardon had been obtained; 
she adored him. Still, at times, he doubted it, and 
that doubt saddened his life. To be assured that the 
dead woman, the mother, had allowed herself to be at 
last pacified in her tomb, they had prayed so long for 
the coming of another child. Their sole desire was 
this token of pardon; so Hubert lived at the feet of 
his wife as in a worship, in one of those conjugal pas¬ 
sions as ardent and chaste as an ever-renewed betrothal. 
Though, in the presence of the apprentice, he did not 
even kiss her hair, he never, after twenty years of mar¬ 
ried life, entered their room without being troubled by 
the emotion of a young husband on his wedding night. 
How discreet it was, this room, with its white and gray 
paint, its paper strewn with blue bouquets, its mahog- 
ony furniture covered with cretonne. Never did a 
sound come from it; but it was redolent with tender¬ 
ness, it warmed the whole house, and it was for Angel¬ 
ica an atmosphere of affection, in which she grew 
impassioned and very pure. 

A book completed the work. As she was ferreting 
about, one morning, rummaging on a shelf of the work¬ 
room covered with dust, she discovered among unused 


THE DREAM 


25 


embroiderer’s tools, a very old copy of the “ Legende 
Doree,” by Jacques de Voragine. This French trans¬ 
lation from the Latin original, dated I 549, must have 
been bought by some master chasuble-maker on 
account of its illustrations full of information about 
the saints. For a long time the girl interested herself 
only in the pictures, delighted with these old wood- 
cuts full of naive faith. As soon as she was allowed to 
play, she took the in-quarto, bound in yellow calf; she 
slowly turned its leaves; first, the false title-page, red 
and black, with the address of the bookseller, “ A 
Paris, a l’enseigne de Saint Jehan Baptiste; ” then, the 
title, flanked by medallions of the four Evangelists, 
illustrated below by the adoration of the three Magi, 
above by the triumph of Jesus Christ trampling upon 
bones. And the engravings, the ornamented letters, 
the large and smaller pictures, followed each other 
through the pages. The Annunciation, an immense 
angel pouring the rays of its nimbus over a very fragile 
Virgin Mary; the Massacre of the Innocents, the cruel 
Herod before a heap of little corpses; the Manger, 
Jesus between Mary and St. Joseph holding a wax 
taper; St. John, the Almoner, tending the poor; St. 
Mathias breaking an idol; St. Nicholas in bishop’s 
garb, with babes in a wooden tub at his side; and all 
the saints, Agnes, her neck pierced by a javelin, 
Christine, her breasts torn by pincers, Genevieve, fol¬ 
lowed by her lambs; Julienne, flagellated; Anastasia, 
burning at the stake; Mary, the Egyptian, doing penance 
in the desert; Magdalene, bearing the vase of perfume. 
Still others passed on, in line; a feeling half of terror, 
half of devotion grew with each of them; it was 
like one of those terrible and sweet stories which 
tighten the heart and moisten the eyes. 

But Angelica, little by little, became curious to know 
exactly what the pictures represented. The two close 
columns of text, the printed matter of which had 
turned very black on the yellowed paper, frightened 


2 6 


THE DREAM 


her at first by the barbarous aspect of the Gothic 
characters. But in time she accustomed herself to it, 
unraveled the characters, understood the abbreviations 
and contractions, learned to guess the forms of the 
archaic words, and at last read it all fluently, delighted 
as though she were piercing a mystery, triumphant at 
each new difficulty overcome. Under these laborious 
clouds of darkness, a whole shining world revealed it¬ 
self to her. She entered a sphere of celestial splendor. 
Her few school books, so cold and so dry, existed no 
longer. The legend alone impassioned her, kept her 
bent, her forehead between her hands, entranced to the 
point of not living a real life, unconscious of time, as 
she saw rising up, from the depth of the unknown, the 
great outburst of her dream. 

God is infinitely gracious; and, around him are the 
holy ones, men and women. They are born predestin¬ 
ated; voices announce them; their mothers have dazzling 
dreams. All are beautiful, strong, victorious. A 
great light surrounds them, their countenance is re¬ 
splendent. Dominic has a star on his forehead. They 
read in the minds of men, repeat aloud all that one 
thinks. They have the gift of prophecy, and their 
predictions are always realized. Their number is in¬ 
finite; there are bishops and monks, there are virgins 
and harlots, beggars and lords of royal blood, naked 
hermits eating roots, old men in caverns with does. 
The history of all is the same; they grow for Christ, 
believe in Him, refuse to sacrifice to the false gods, are 
tortured, and die full of glory. The emperors are soon 
weary of persecutions. Andrew, crucified, preaches 
for two days to twenty thousand people. Multitudes 
of conversions are effected, forty thousand men are 
baptized at a time. When the crowds are not con¬ 
verted by such miracles, they flee terrified. The saints 
are accused of magic, enigmas are put to them, which 
they solve; they are confronted with the doctors, who 
remain mute. As soon as they are brought into the 


TH1 DR1AM 


2 7 


temples to sacrifice, the idols are overturned by a 
breath and broken to pieces. A virgin knots her girdle 
around the neck of Venus, who crumbles to dust. 
The earth trembles, the temple of Diana falls to the 
ground, struck by thunder; and the people revolt, 
civil war breaks out. Then, often, executioners ask 
for baptism, kings kneel at the feet of saints clad in 
rags, who have wedded poverty. Sabina flees from 
the paternal house. Pauline abandons her five children 
and deprives herself of baths. Mortifyings, fasts, 
purify them. No wheat, no oil. Germain spreads 
ashes over his food. Bernard no longer distinguishes 
dishes, recognizingonly the taste of pure water. Aga- 
thon keeps for three years a stone in his mouth. 
Augustine despairs over his sin, for allowing himself 
the recreation of watching a dog running. Prosperity, 
health, are despised; joy begins with privations which 
kill the body, and it is thus that, triumphant, they 
come to dwell in gardens where the flowers are stars 
and the leaves of the trees sing. They exterminate 
dragons, they raise up tempests and appease them, 
they are ravished in ecstasies two cubits from the 
ground. Widowed ladies purvey to their wants during 
life, receive through dreams orders for their burial after 
death. Wonderful stories happen to them, marvelous 
adventures, as beautiful as romances. And, after hun¬ 
dreds of years, when their tombs are opened, there 
arise the sweetest odors 

Then, in constant struggle with the saints, are the 
devils — devils innumerable. “ They often fly around 
us,” said the text, “ and fill the air without number. 
The air is as full of devils and bad spirits as a ray of 
sunlight is full of atoms — a very powder.” And the 
battle is waged, eternal. Always are the saints victo¬ 
rious, and always must they return to victory again. 
The more devils are chased away, the more return. 
Six thousand six hundred and sixty-six are counted in 
the body of a single woman, whom Fortunatus delivers. 


28 


THE DREAM 


They struggle, they speak, they cry by the voice of the 
possessed, whose sides are shaken as by a very tempest. 
They enter into them through the nose, through the 
ears, through the mouth, and they leave them with 
roarings after days of fearful struggles. At each turn 
of the roads, a possessed one wallows, a passing saint 
wages battle. Basil, to save a young man, fights body- 
to-body with the arch fiend. Fora whole night,Macaire, 
surrounded by tombs, fights devils, is assailed again, 
and defends himself. The angels themselves, at the 
bedside of the dead, are compelled, in order to obtain 
possession of these souls, to beat the devils unmerci¬ 
fully. At other times, there are conflcts of intelligence 
and wit. The saints joke, they spar in cunning; the 
apostle Peter and Simon the magician compete in 
miraculous displays; Satan, roaming about, assumes 
all forms, disguises himself as a woman, goes as far as 
to take the guise of the saints. But as soon as he is 
overcome, he appears in all his hideousness: “ A black 
cat,” said the text, “ larger than a dog, with big, flaming 
eyes, with a long tongue, red and bloody, reaching 
down to the navel; the tail twisted and upraised, a 
disgusting smell heralding its presence.” He is the 
sole objective — the ever-hated one. They fear him 
and rail at him. They are not even honest with him. 
In fact, despite the ferocious array of his caldrons, he 
remains the eternal dupe. All the compacts he makes 
are torn from him by violence or ruse. Weak women 
cast him down; Margaret crushes his head with her 
foot; Juliana breaks open his sides with blows from a 
chain. A serenity comes out of it all; a disdain of evil, 
so powerless it always proves ; a certitude of right, 
because virtue is sovereign. It is sufficient to cross 
one’s self; the devil can do naught; he howls and 
disappears. When a virgin makes the sign of the cross, 
hell itself crumbles down. 

Then, in this combat of saints, male and female, 
against Satan, fearful torments and persecutions unroll 


THE DREAM 


29 


themselves. The executioners expose martyrs covered 
with honey to the flies; make them walk barefooted on 
broken glass and glowing coals; let them down into pits 
full of reptiles; flagellate them with lead-weighted whips; 
nail them alive into coffins, afterward cast out to sea; 
hang them by the hair, then set them on fire; pour upon 
their wounds quicklime, boiling pitch, molten lead; place 
them upon bronze seats heated white; force down 
around their craniums fire-red helmets; burn their 
sides with torches, break their thighs on anvils, tear 
out their eyes, cut their tongues, break their fingers 
one after the other. But suffering does not count; the 
saints are still full of contempt, have a haste, a cheer¬ 
fulness to suffer more. A continual miracle, moreover, 
protects them; they tire the executioners. John 
drinks poison, and feels none the worse for it. Sebas¬ 
tian smiles, bristling with arrows; at times, the arrows 
remain suspended in the air, right and left of the mar¬ 
tyr; or, shot by the archer, turn back and pierce his 
eyes. They drink molten lead as they would iced 
water. Lions prostrate themselves and lick their 
hands like lambs. The gridiron of St. Laurence is of 
an agreeable freshness to him. He cries, Wretch, 
thou hast roasted this side, turn the other, and then 
eat, for it is roasted enough.” Cecilia, plunged in a 
boiling bath, is there as though in a cool place, and 
shows not even a little drop of sweat. Christina 
thwarts all torments; her father has her beaten by 
twelve men, who succumb to fatigue; another execu¬ 
tioner steps in, ties her on a wheel, lights a fire beneath, 
and the flames, spreading, devour fifteen hundred peo¬ 
ple leaving her unscathed; he throws her out at sea, a 
stone around her neck, but the angels uphold her; 
Jesus comes in person to baptize her, then entrusts her 
to St. Michael so that he may take her back to land; 
another executioner finally shuts her in with vipers 
which coil themselves in a caress around her throat, 
and then leaves her five days in a white-hot oven, 


30 


THE DREAM 


where she sings on without suffering any harm. Vin* 
cent, who undergoes still more, does not succeed in 
suffering; they break his limbs; they tear his sides 
with combs of iron till his entrails come out; they lard 
him with needles; they throw him on a brazier that his 
wounds sprinkle with blood; they put him back into 
prison, the feet nailed against a post; and, disembow¬ 
eled, roasted, with open stomach, he still lives and his 
tortures are changed to the sweetness of flowers; a 
great light fills his cell; the angels sing with him on a 
bed of roses. The sweet sound of the song and the 
suave odor of the flowers spread themselves outside, 
and, when the guard have seen, they are converted, 
and when Dacien hears of this, he is overcome, and 
says: “ What more shall we do to him, we are van¬ 
quished.” Such is the cry of the tormentors; all this 
ends only with their conversion or their destruction. 
Their hands are stricken with palsy. They perish a 
violent death; fish-bones strangle them; thunder-bolts 
crush them; their chariots are destroyed. And mean¬ 
while the cells of the saints are resplendent with heav¬ 
enly light. Mary and the apostles visit them in spite 
of bars and locks, through the walls. Continual suc¬ 
cor, apparitions come down from heaven, where God 
manifests himself, holding a crown of precious stones. 
To them, death is joyous; they defy it; whole families 
rejoice when one of their members succumbs. On 
Mount Ararat, ten thousand crucified expire. Near 
Cologne, the eleven thousand virgins allow themselves 
to be massacred. In the circuses, bones creak under 
the wild beasts’ teeth. Quiricus, three years old, 
whom the Holy Ghost caused to speak like a man, suf¬ 
fers martyrdom. Sucklings insult their executioners. 
A disdain, a disgust of the flesh, of the human tatter, 
sharpens the pain to celestial ecstasy. That it b,e torn 
asunder, that it be burnt, that is good; again and again 
it is good; never will it be tortured enough; and they 
all clamor for the blade, the sword across their throats 


THE DREAM 


31 


which alone kills them. Eulalia, at the stake, inhales 
flames to die the quicker; God hears her, a white dove 
comes out of her mouth and flies up to heaven. 

Reading all this, Angelica marveled strangely. So 
many abominations and such triumphant joy ravished 
her with delights above the real. But other details in 
the legend, less barbarous, however, amused her; the 
beasts, for instance, all the ark disporting itself therein. 
She interested herself in the ravens and the eagles, 
hidden there on purpose to feed the hermits. Then, 
what beautiful stories about the lions! The useful lion 
which digs the pit of Mary the Egyptian; the flaming 
lion which guards the door of the wicked houses when 
the pro-consuls order the virgins to be led there; and, 
again, the lion of St. Jerome to which an ass has been 
intrusted, which allows it to be stolen and then fetches 
it back again. There is also the wolf, stricken with 
contrition, bringing back a purloined swine. Bernard 
excommunicates the flies, which fall dead. Remi and 
Blazius feed the birds from their table, bless them and 
give them new health. Francis, full of a very great dove- 
like simplicity, preaches to them and exhorts them to 
love God. “ A bird, called cicada, nested in a fig-tree, 
and Francis stretched out his hand and called this bird, 
and it obeyed and came on his hand. And he said to 
it: ‘ Sing, my sister, and praise our Lord.’ And forth¬ 
with it sang, and never went until he gave it leave.” 
This all was, for Angelica, a continual subject of recrea¬ 
tion; it suggested also to her the idea of calling to her 
the swallows, intent upon seeing whether they would 
really come. Then there were these stories which she 
could not read without being ill, so heartily did she 
laugh. Christopher, the good giant, who carried Jesus, 
made her merry to tears. She nearly choked with 
merriment at the misadventure of the governor with 
the three chambermaids of Anastasia, when he goes to 
find them in the kitchen and kisses the stoves and caul¬ 
drons, thinking he is embracing them. “ He came out 


32 


THE DREAM 




very black and very ugly, with rumpled clothes. And 
when the serving women, who waited for him outside, 
saw him thus attired, they thought he was turned into 
a devil. So they beat him with rods, then ran away 
and left him alone. ” 

But the greatest fits of laughter seized her when they 
gave the devil a drubbing, especially Juliana, who, 
tempted by him in her cell, administered to him so 
extraordinary a flogging with her chain. “ Then the 
provost commanded Juliana to be brought forward, 
and, when she came out, she dragged the devil after 
her, and he cried, saying: ‘ Madam Juliana, do not 
hurt me any more.’ She dragged him thus through the 
market-place, and, after a while, threw him into a loath¬ 
some pit.” Then the girl would repeat to the Huberts, 
as she worked by their side, legends more interesting 
than fairy-tales. She had read them so often that she 
knew them by heart. The legend of the Seven Sleep¬ 
ers, who, fleeing persecution, walled in a cavern, slept 
three hundred and seventy-seven years, and, on awak¬ 
ening, surprised so thoroughly Emperor Theodosius; 
the legend of St. Clement, his adventures without end, 
—j so unforeseen and dramatic — a whole family—the 
father, the mother, the three sons — separated by great 
misfortunes, and finally reunited through the most 
beautiful miracles. Her tears flowed; she dreamed of 
all this, night after night; she lived in that tragic and 
triumphant world of prodigies, in that supernatural 
country where all the virtues are rewarded with all the 
joys. 

When Angelica received the first communion, it 
seemed to her that she walked like the saints, two 
cubits from the ground. She was a young Christian 
of the primitive church; she cast herself into the hands 
of God, having learned in the Book that she could not 
be saved without grace. The Huberts practiced relig¬ 
ion with quiet simplicity; mass on Sundays, commun¬ 
ion on the great feast days; and they did it all with the 


THE DREAM 


33 


tranquil faith of the humble, a little perhaps for tradi¬ 
tion’s sake and for their clientage, the chasuble-makers 
having from father to son faithfully performed the Easter 
rites. Hubert himself sometimes stopped minding his 
work-frame to listen to the child reading these legends, 
at which he shuddered with her, his hair raised as it were 
by the light breath of the invisible. He had some of 
her passion; he wept when he saw her in her white 
communicant’s robe. That day was as a dream; both 
came back from the church bewildered and exhausted. 
Hubertine was obliged to scold them, the one and the 
other, she so reasonable, who always condemned exag¬ 
geration, even in good things. Henceforward she be¬ 
gan to combat Angelica’s zeal, especially the fervor of 
charity with which she was seized. Francis took pov¬ 
erty for his mistress, Julian the Almoner called the 
poor his lords, Gervais and Protais washed their feet, 
Martin divided his mantle with them. And the child, 
following Lucy’s example, wished to sell everything in 
order to give everything. She first stripped herself of 
all her little things, she then commenced pillaging the 
house. But the climax came when she gave to the 
unworthy, without discernment, with open hand. 
One evening, the day after her first communion, repri¬ 
manded for having thrown out some linen to a drunken 
woman, she fell once more into her old violences, she 
had a terrible attack. Then, crushed with shame, ill, 
she kept to her bed for three days. 

However, the weeks, the months passed. Two 
years had gone by, Angelica was fourteen, and was 
growing into a woman. When she read theLegend 
her ears buzzed, the blood beat in the little blue veins 
of her temples; and now she was moved to a sister’s 
tenderness for the virgins. 

Virginity is sister to the angels, possession of all 
good, defeat of the evil, lordship of faith. It gives 
grace, it is perfection that has but to show itself to 
The Dream j 


34 


THE DREAM 


conquer. The Holy Ghost makes Lucy so heavy that 
a thousand men and five yokes of oxen, on the order 
of the proconsul, cannot drag her to a bad place. A 
governor who tries to kiss Anastasia becomes blind. 
In the torments, the candor of the virgins seems to 
bloom, their spotless flesh, harrowed by iron combs, 
gushes forth floods of milk instead of blood. Ten dif¬ 
ferent times through the book comes again the story of 
the young Christian girl fleeing from her family, hid¬ 
den under a monk’s robe, accused of having brought 
shame to a girl of the neighborhood, suffering calumny 
without exculpating herself, then suddenly triumphing 
in the revelation of her innocent sex. Thus does 
Eugenia, who, brought before a judge, recognizes her 
father, tears her dress and shows herself. Eternally 
the combat of chastity recommences, always are the 
pricks renewed. And the fear of woman is the wisdom 
of saints. This world is strewn with traps; hermits go 
to the deserts where there are no women, they strug¬ 
gle fearfully, they flagellate themselves, throw them¬ 
selves into thorn-bushes and in the snow. A recluse 
covers his fingers with his mantle when helping his 
mother to cross a ford. A martyr, tempted by a girl v 
cuts his tongue with his teeth and spits it in her face. 
Francis declares that he has no greater enemy than his 
own body. Bernard cries “ Thief! thief! ” to defend 
himself from a lady, his hostess. A woman to whom 
Pope Leo gives the host kisses his hand; he cuts it off 
at the wrist and the virgin Mary puts it back in its 
place. All glorify the separation of the wedded ones. 
Alexis, very rich, married, instructs his wife in chas¬ 
tity, and then goes away. They only marry to die. 
Justinia, tormented with love at the sight of Cyprian, 
resists her passion, converts him, marches with him to 
the torments. Cecilia, loved by an angel, reveals her 
secret, on the evening of her nuptials, to Valerian, her 
husband, who consents not to approach her, and 
receives baptism to see the angel. “ He found 


THE DREAM 


35 


Cecilia in her room speaking to the angel, and the 
angel held in his hand two wreaths of roses, and gave 
them, one to Cecilia, and one to Valerian, and said: 

‘ Keep these wreaths, and be spotless in body and 
heart.’ Twenty others unite but to separate; death is 
stronger than love; it defies existence itself. Hilarius 
prays God to call his daughter Appia to heaven, so that 
she should not marry; she dies, and the mother asks 
the father to have her likewise called, which is done. 
The Virgin Mary herself takes away the lovers from 
their mistresses. A nobleman, a relative of the King 
of Hungary, gives up a young girl of marvelous beauty 
as soon as Mary enters into contest. “ Suddenly Our 
Lady appeared to him, saying: ‘ If I am so beautiful 
as you say, why do you leave me for another?’ And 
he became affianced to her.” Among all these holy 
ones Angelica had her favorites, those whose lessons 
went to her heart, who touched her to the point of 
showing her the good way. Thus the wise Catherine, 
born in the purple, charmed her by the universal science 
of her eighteen years, when she argues with the fifty 
rhetoricians and grammarians arrayed against her by 
Emperor Maximus. She confounds them, reduces them 
to silence. “ They were astonished, and did not know 
what to say; but they all held their tongues, and the 
emperor blamed them to have allowed themselves to 
be so utterly vanquished by a maid.” So the fifty 
instantly declare that they are converted. “ And forth¬ 
with, when the tyrant heard this, he was quite taken 
up by a great fury, and commanded that they be all 
burned in the middle of the city.” To the girl’s eyes, 
Catherine was the invincible sage, as proud and brilliant 
with wisdom as with beauty, the very woman she herself 
wished to be, converting men and women, and allow¬ 
ing herself to be fed by a dove before being beheaded. 
But especially Elizabeth, the daughter of the King of 
Hungary, became a continual lesson to her. At each 
revolt of her pride, when violence had the best of her, 


THE DREAM 


36 

she thought of this model of sweetness and simplicity, 
pious from her fifth year, refusing to play, lying down 
on the ground to do homage to God; later on, an 
obedient and subdued wife to the Landgraf of 
Thuringia, showing to her husband a gay countenance 
when her tears flowed every night; at last, a chaste 
widow, expelled from her states, happy to lead a 
beggar’s life. “ Her vesture was so vile that she wore 
a gray cloak lengthened out with cloth of a different 
color; the sleeves of her dress were torn, and mended 
with some other stuff.” The king, her father, had her 
sent for by a count. “ And when the count saw her 
spinning in such clothes, he cried out in pain and won¬ 
derment, and said: ‘ Never did King’s daughter appear 
thus clad, or was seen to spin wool.’ ” She is the in¬ 
carnation of humility, living on black bread with beg¬ 
gars, tending their wounds without disgust, wearing 
their coarse garments, sleeping on the hard ground, 
following the holy processions barefoot. “ She washed 
many a time the pans and kitchen vessels, and she 
escaped and hid herself so that the servants should not 
turn her from such work, and she said: ‘ If I had found 
another life more despicable, I would have chosen it.’ ” 
So Angelica, formerly so stiffened by anger when 
made to scrub the kitchen, practiced, of her own 
accord, the lowliest tasks when she felt herself tormented 
by the impulse of disobedience. But, still more than 
Catherine, more than Elizabeth, more than all the 
others, one virgin saint was dear to her— Agnes, the 
child martyr. 

Her heart was thrilled when she found in the Legend 
the young maiden, robed with her hair, who had pro¬ 
tected her under the door of the cathedral. What a 
flame of pure love ! How she repulses the son of the 
governor, who accosts her as she is leaving school: 
“ Away from me ! thou shepherd of death, commence¬ 
ment of sin and nourishment of felony.” How she 
extols the celestial lover! “ I love Him whose mother 


THE DREAM 


37 


is a virgin and whose father never approached a 
woman, whose beauty the sun and the moon wonder 
at, by the scent of whom the dead revive.” And 
when Aspasia commands that they thrust through her 
neck a javelin, “ she ascends to Paradise to unite her¬ 
self to her spouse rosy and white.” For the last few 
months, especially at uneasy times, when rushes of 
blood throbbed at her temples, Angelica called for 
Agnes, implored her, and at once seemed to feel 
refreshed. She saw her continually about her, she 
despaired that she often did and often thought things 
for which she felt the Saint aggrieved. One evening, 
as she was kissing her hands, as she sometimes still 
took pleasure in doing, she suddenly became very red, 
and turned around all confused, though she was alone, 
for she understood that the saint had seen her. Agnes 
was the guardian of her body. 

At fifteen, Angelica was thus an adorable girl. 
Ihdeed, neither the cloistered and hard-working life, 
nor the sweet shade of the cathedral, nor the Legend, 
with its beautiful saints, had made of her an angel, a 
creature of absolute perfection. Fits of temper still 
carried her away, faults manifested themselves, by 
unexpected pranks, in some corners of the soul not yet 
walled in from temptation. But she showed herself so 
ashamed, she so ardently yearned to be perfect! She 
was so human, so ignorant, but, in her soul so very 
pure! 

Coming back from one of the excursions that the 
Huberts allowed themselves twice a year, on Whit- 
Monday and Assumption day, she had picked up a 
sweet brier, roots and all, and had found pleasure in 
replanting it in the narrow garden. She trimmed it, 
watered it, and it grew straighter; it gave large wild 
roses of delicate odor, which she watched with her 
inborn passionate delight, reluctant to graft it, wishing 
to see if a miracle would not make it bear real roses. 
She danced around it, she repeated, with a delightful 


38 


THE DREAM 


expression, “ ’Tis I! ’tis I ! ” And they joked her 
about her highway-side rose-bush. She herself laughed 
at the mild mocking, rather pale, however, with tears 
at her eyelids. Her violet-colored eyes had become 
sweeter, her mouth, half opened, discovered little white 
teeth in the lengthened oval of her face, which her 
hair, weightless as light, nimbused as with virgin gold. 
She had grown, without becoming slim; the neck and 
shoulders still of a proud grace, the throat rounded, the 
waist supple, and gay and healthy, of a rare beauty, of 
an infinite charm, flourishing in her innocent flesh and 
chaste soul. 

The Huberts, day by day, were moved to a deeper 
affection for her. The idea had come to both of them 
to adopt her. Only, they dared say nothing of it to 
one another, for fear of waking up again their ever¬ 
lasting regret. So that, on the morning the husband 
spoke of the matter in their own room, the wife had 
sunk upon a chair, melted to tears. To adopt a child 
was to renounce ever having one of her own. Indeed, 
it could scarcely be counted upon at their age; and 
she gave her consent, moved by the dear thought of 
making her their daughter. Angelica, when they 
spoke to her of it, hung to their neck, choked with 
tears. It was a settled matter, she would always stay 
with them, in this house now so full of her, rejuvenated 
by her youth, merry with her laughter. 

But, from the first, an obstacle dismayed them. 
The justice of the peace, Mr. Grandsire, on being con¬ 
sulted, explained to them the radical impossibility of 
any adoption, the law exacting that the adopted be of 
age. Then, as he saw their grief, he suggested the 
legal expedient of the officious guardianship; any 
individual more than fifty years of age can bind a 
minor of less than fifteen to himself, by a legal title, 
by becoming his officious guardian. The ages were 
all right, they accepted, delighted; and it was even 
agreed that they would at once confer adoption upon 


THE DREAM 


39 


their ward, by a clause in their will, as the code per¬ 
mits it. Mr. Grandsire took charge of the request of 
the husband and the consent of the wife, then placed 
himself in communication with the Director of Public 
Assistance, guardian by law of all assisted children, 
whose authorization it was necessary to obtain. 
There was an inquiry, and at last the documents were 
deposited in Paris, in the hands of a specially appointed 
justice of the peace there. And they now awaited 
only the official deed, which would constitute the act 
of officious guardianship, when they were seized by a 
tardy scruple. 

Before thus adopting Angelica, should they not 
make an earnest effort to find her family? If the 
mother were living, how could they dare to dispose of 
the daughter, without being absolutely certain that she 
was really forsaken? Then, at bottom, there was the 
dark, unknown spot, this spoiled stock from which 
perhaps, the child came, that thought which used 
formerly to make them so anxious and the worry of 
which came back at this hour. Indeed, they felt so 
troubled about the matter that it actually took their 


sleep away. . 

Suddenly, Hubert decided on making a journey to 
Paris. It was a catastrophe in his calm existence. 
He hid the truth from Angelica, spoke of the necessity 
of his presence for the guardianship deed. In twenty- 
four hours he hoped to know all. But, in Paris, the 
days went by, obstacles came up at each step; he spent 
a week there, sent about from one official to another, 
tramping around bewildered, nearly crying with vexa¬ 
tion and fatigue. First, at the Public Assistance, they 
received him very curtly. The rule of the administra¬ 
tion is that children be not informed of their origin 
until they are of age. Two mornings in succession, they 
sent him away. He had to insist, to explain all about 
the matter in three different offices, growing hoarse as 
he introduced himself over and over again as Angelica s 


40 


THE DREAM 


officious guardian; and finally the sub-superintendent, 
a tall, stern man, vouchsafed to inform him of the total 
absence of exact documents. The administration 
knew nothing. A midwife had brought the child 
Angelica Mary, without naming the mother. Unable 
to clear the mystery, he was about returning to Beau¬ 
mont, when a sudden idea brought him back to the 
office, a fourth time, to ask information about the cer¬ 
tificate of birth, which probably contained the name 
of the midwife. There were some further difficulties, 
but finally he found the desired name, Madame Foucart, 
and also, that in 1850 the woman had lived in the 
“ rue des Deux-Ecus.” 

Then the trampings began again. The end of the 
“ rue des Deux-Ecus ” having since been demolished, no 
shopkeeper of the neighboring streets remembered 
Madame Foucart. He consulted a directory; the name 
was no longer there. He began looking up, at ran¬ 
dom, watching the signs and resigning himself to call 
on a number of midwives, and it was by this means 
that he had the luck to come across an old lady, who 
exclaimed: “ What ! did she know Madame Foucart, a 
person of such merit, who had had so many sad mis¬ 
fortunes? She now lived in the ‘ rue Censier,’ at the other 
end of Paris.” So there he went, as fast as his feet 
could carry him. But at first, instructed by experience, 
he promised himself to act diplomatically. However 
Madame Foucart, an enormously stout woman, heaped 
on her short legs, did not allow him to unfold the fine 
array of questions he had prepared beforehand. 
Hardly had he mentioned the Christian names of the 
child and the date of the transfer to the Public Assist¬ 
ance, that she began jabbering willingly enough, and 
told the whole story in a flood of rancorous spirits. 
“Ah! so the little one was alive? Well, she could 
flatter herself on having for a mother one of the mean¬ 
est wretches! Yes, Madame Sidonie, as they called her 
since her widowhood, a very well related woman 


THE DREAM 


41 


indeed, sister, they said, to one of the Ministers of 
State, but that did not prevent her from running a very 
shady business.” And she explained in what way she 
had known her, when the wretch kept a Southern fruit 
and oil store in the “ rue Saint-Honore/’ on her arrival 
from Plassans, whence they came, she and her husband, 
to try their fortune. The husband dead and buried, 
she had a child fifteen months afterward. What an 
extraordinary woman to bear a child ! As dry as an 
invoice bill, as cold as a protest, as indifferent and 
as brutal as a bailiff’s deputy. One may pardon a 
grievous fault, but such ingratitude! Was it not she, 
Madame Foucart, who — the shop sold and the pro¬ 
ceeds eaten up — had fed her during her lying-in, and 
helped her to get rid of the babe by taking it over 
there. And, for a reward, when she, Madame Foucart, 
had, in her turn, fallen into trouble, had she ever suc¬ 
ceeded in drawing from her month’s board even fifteen 
francs lent out from hand to hand? To-day Madame 
Sidonie occupied “ rue du Faubourg Poissoniere,” a 
little shop and three rooms on the “ entresol,” where, 
under the pretense of selling lace, she sold everything. 
Well, well! A mother of that kind, it was a thousand 
times better that her child should never know her! 

An hour later Hubert was prowling around the shop 
of Madame Sidonie. He caught a glimpse of a thin 
woman, wan looking, without age and without sex, 
clothed in a threadbare black dress, stained by all 
kinds of doubtful transactions. Never had the 
remembrance of her daughter, born, as it were, by 
chance, warmed this dangerous female broker’s heart. 
Discreetly he informed himself, learned things he 
repeated to no one, not even to his wife. He still 
hesitated, came a last time past the narrow, mysterious 
shop. Should he not push open the door, make him¬ 
self known, obtain consent? 

It was for him, as an honest man, to judge whether 
he should sever the tie forever. Abruptly he turned 


42 


THE DREAM 


his back and returned that night to Beaumont. 
Hubertine had just been told at M. Grandsire’s that 
the final deed granting the officious guardianship had 
been granted. 

And when Angelica threw herself in the arms of 
Hubert, he saw well from the supplicating interro¬ 
gation of her eyes that she had understood the real 
motive of his journey. Then, simply, he told her: 

“ My child, your mother is dead.” 

Angelica, weeping, kissed them both passionately. 

Never was it spoken of again. She was their 
daughter. 


CHAPTER III. 

That year, on Whit-Monday, the Huberts had taken 
Angelica to lunch at the ruins of the Chateau d’Haute- 
cceur, which overhang the Ligneul, two leagues down 
stream from Beaumont; and, the next morning, after 
that whole day in the open air, of rambles and of 
laughter, when the old work-room clock struck eight, 
the young girl was still asleep. 

Hubertine was obliged to go up and knock at the 
door. 

“ Well, lazy bones, we have already finished break¬ 
fast, we folks.” 

Angelica dressed hurriedly, and ran down to break¬ 
fast alone. Then, when she came into the work-room, 
where Hubert and his wife had just settled down to 
work: “ Oh, how I did sleep! And that chasuble that 
was promised for next Sunday! ” 

The work-room, the windows of which opened on the 
garden, was a vast apartment, preserved almost intact 
in its primitive state. In the ceiling the two principal 
beams, the three exposed bays of joists, had not even 


THE DREAM 


43 


been whitewashed, and appeared very much blackened 
with smoke, worm-eaten, allowing the laths that filled 
the space between the joists to be seen under the frag¬ 
ments of plaster. One of the stone corbels which sup¬ 
ported the beams bore a date— 1643 — doubtless the 
date of its erection. The chimney, likewise of stone, 
half-crumbled and disjointed, retained its simple 
elegance, with its tall uprights, its shoulder-pieces, its 
cornices, its frieze, its funnel ending in a crownwork; 
even on the frieze, one might have still distinguished, 
as though blended by age, a naive sculpture, a Saint- 
Hilaire, the patron saint of the Embroiderers’ Guild. 
But the chimney was no longer used; the hearth had 
been made into an open cupboard, by putting in 
shelves on which drawings were piled; and it was now 
a stove that warmed the room, a bell-shaped stove, the 
cast-iron pipe of which, after running along the ceiling, 
pierced the old funnel. The strips of ancient flooring 
were in various states of rottenness, with a few more 
recent pieces of wood inserted, one by one, as each 
hole manifested itself. The yellow paint on the wall 
had been there about a hundred years, faded above, 
decayed below, spotted with saltpeter. Every year 
they spoke of repainting the whole, but found them¬ 
selves unable to make up their minds, from dislike of 
a change. 

Hubertine, sitting before her work-frame, where the 
chasuble was stretched, raised her head and said: 

“ You know that, if we deliver it on Sunday, I have 
promised you a basket of pansies for your garden. ” 

Gayly, Angelica exclaimed: 

“ ’Tis time yet!-Oh! I’ll put myself to it!- 

But where on earth is my finger-stall? Tools all fly 
away when one stops working.” 

She slipped her old ivory finger-stall on the second 
joint of her little finger, and then sat down at the 
other side of the frame, opposite the window. 

Since the middle of last century, not a modification 



44 


THE DREAM 


had been introduced in the arrangement of the work¬ 
shop. 

Fashions changed, the art of the embroiderer 
changed, but you might have still found there, sealed 
to the wall, la chanlatte , the piece of wood on which 
the loom rests, a movable trestle supporting it at the 
other end. In the corners slept some antique tools; a 
diligent , with its gearing and its pins used for roll¬ 
ing, the gold thread of the bobbins on the spindle with¬ 
out touching it; a hand spinning-wheel, a sort of pul¬ 
ley, twisting the threads hooked to the wall; tambours 
of all sizes, garnished with their taffeta and their splints, 
serving to embroider with a hook. On a shelf was 
arranged an old collection of punches for the spangles; 
and you would have seen there also an epave> a copper 
tatignon — the large classic candlestick of the old-time 
embroiderers. In the loops of a rack, made out of a 
nailed strap, where hung awls, wallets, hammers, irons 
to cut vellum, also mennelourds — box-wood hatchets 
for modeling the threads as needed. And there was 
still at the foot of the lime-wood table where the cut¬ 
ting was done, a large reel; the two movable osier 
winches of which spread the skeins. Strings of bob¬ 
bins with bright-colored silks hung near the chest. 
On the floor a basket was full of empty bobbins. A 
large pair of scissors was lying around on a straw-cov¬ 
ered chair; a ball of string had just fallen on the floor, 
unrolled. 

“Ah! the beautiful weather, the beautiful weather!” 
Angelica went on. “ What a pleasure to live!” 

And, before absorbing herself in her work, she for¬ 
got herself, for another instant, looking out of the open 
window through which came in the radiant May morn¬ 
ing. A ray of sun slipped down from the roof of the 
cathedral, a fresh odor of lilac arose from the garden of 
the See-house. She smiled, dazzled, bathed in spring. 
Then, with a start, as if she was coming out of her 
sleep again: 


THE DREAM 


45 


“ Father, I have no more gold thread,” she said. 

Hubert, who had just finished punching in the 
counter-tracing of the drawing of a cope, soon fetched 
a skein from the bottom of the chest, cut it, pointed 
both ends by scratching away the gold that covered 
the silk, and brought the skein wrapped in parchment. 

“ Are you sure that it is all you want? ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

At a glance she made sure that nothing else was 
missing; the spindles full of different golds, red, green, 
and blue; the bobbins of silk of all shades: the spangles, 
the wire bobbins, the puff of crispature in a heap in the 
crown of an old hat, serving as a box; the long, fine 
needles, the steel pincers, the thimbles, the long scis¬ 
sors, the lump of wax. All these were on the loom 
itself, on the stretched stuff which a stout gray paper 
protected. 

She had threaded a needleful of gold for immediate 
use. But, at the first stitch, it broke, and she had to 
sharpen it again by scratching off a little gold, which 
she threw in the waste box, also lying on the loom. 

“Ah! at last!” she said, when she put her needle 
through. 

A great silence reigned. Hubert was busy stretch¬ 
ing a loom. He had put the two rollers on the lath- 
frame and on the trestle, well opposite each other, so 
as to straighten the crimson silk of the cope that Hu- 
bertine had just sewn to the coutisses. And he intro¬ 
duced laths in the mortises of the rollers, where he 
fixed them with the help of four little nails. Then, 
having latticed the piece right and left, he resumed 
stretching by dividing the nails back. One could hear 
him striking his fifiger-tips upon the stuff resounding 
like a drum. 

Angelica had become a rare embroideress, gifted 
with a skill and taste at which the Huberts marveled. 
Besides what they had taught her she brought to her 
work her passionate nature, giving life to the flowers, 


4 6 


THE DREAM 


faith to the symbols. Under her hands silk and gold 
became animate, a mystic inspiration enhanced the 
merest ornaments; she put her whole self into them, 
with her imagination in constant flights, with her belief 
in the infinite world of the invisible. Some of her 
embroideries had so stirred the diocese of Beaumont 
that a priest, an archaeologist, and another, an amateur 
of paintings, had come to see her, in ecstasies before 
her virgins, which they compared to the naive figures 
of the Primitives. It was the same sincerity, the same 
sentiment of the beyond encircled in a minute perfec¬ 
tion of detail. She had the gift of drawing, a very 
miracle, which, without a teacher, with nothing but 
her evening studies by lamplight, often allowed her to 
correct her models, to depart from them, to follow her 
fancy, creating with her needle’s point. So much so 
that the Huberts, who never tired declaring the science 
of exact drawing necessary to a good embroideress, 
effaced themselves before her in spite of their older 
experience in the art. They had modestly accepted 
to be her assistants and nothing more, intrusting to her 
all works of great magnificence, preparing for her the 
backgrounds. 

From one end of the year to the other, what marvels, 
dazzling and saintly, passed through her hands! She 
was constantly handling silks, satins, velvets, gold and 
silver cloths. She embroidered chasubles, stoles, fan- 
ons, copes, dalmaticas, mitres, banners and veils for 
chalices and pyxes. But, especially, the orders for 
chasubles came in, a succession of chasubles in the five 
accepted colors; the white for the confessors and the 
virgins; the red for the apostles and the martyrs; the 
black for the dead and the fast-days; the violet for the 
innocents; the green for all feast-days, and the gold 
ones, likewise of frequent usage, replacing, at the will 
of the priest, the white, the red, the green. In the 
center of the cross there were always the same sym¬ 
bols, the monograms of Jesus and of Mary, the trian- 


THE DREAM 


47 


gle surrounded by rays, the lamb, the pelican, the dove, 
a chalice, the vessel of the Host, a heart bleeding under 
the pricks of the thorns; whereas, on the upright and 
on the arms ran ornaments or flowers, all the decorat¬ 
ive motives of the old style, all the wealth of wild flow¬ 
ers, anemones, tulips, peonies, pomegranates, hydran¬ 
geas. A season did not pass away that Angelica did 
not have to make over the symbolic ears and grapes in 
silver on black, in gold on red. For very rich chasu¬ 
bles she worked out in delicate tints whole pictures, 
heads of saints, or a central subject, the Annunciation, 
the Manger, the Calvary. Sometimes the broad welts 
of gold were embroidered on the background itself; 
sometimes she traced the bands, silk or satin, on gold 
brocade or velvet. And this florescence of sacred 
splendor came to life by imperceptible degrees from 
the slender fingers. 

At this moment, the chasuble on which Angelica 
was working was a white satin one, the cross of which 
was formed by a sheaf of golden lilies intertwined with 
bright roses in shaded silk. At the center, in a wreath 
of little roses of a dull gold, the monogram of Mary 
shone out in red and green gold of a great richness of 
ornamentation. 

During the first hour of her resumed embroidering, 
and whilst working at the leaves of the little roses, not 
a word had troubled the silence. But the needleful 
broke again, she re-threaded it, groping under the 
loom like a skillful worker. Then, as she raised her 
head, she seemed to drink, in a long inhalation, the 
entering spring delights. 

“ Ah!” murmured she, “ how fine it was yesterday! 
How good the sun makes you feel! ” 

Hubertine, busy waxing her thread, nodded her 
head: 

“ I am bruised all over, myself; I do not feel my 
arms any more. The fact is, I have ^not your sixteen 
years, and then, we go out so little! 


48 


THE DREAM 


At once, however, she set to work again. She was 
preparing the lilies by sewing shreds of vellum accord¬ 
ing to the marks, so as to bring the flowers out in 
relief. 

“ And then, these first suns make one’s head ache,” 
added Hubert, who, his loom being stretched, was 
preparing to pounce the bands of the cope on the 
silk. 

Angelica had remained with vague eyes lost in the 
sun ray which fell between two of the church buttresses, 
and said softly: 

“ No, no, it refreshed me, it rested me. that whole 
day of open-air life.” 

She had finished the little foliage of gold, and she 
set herself at work on one of the large roses, keeping 
as many threaded needles ready as there were shades 
of silk, embroidering with split-and-returning stitches, 
laying them in the very same direction as the petals. 
But, in spite of the minuteness of this work, the re¬ 
membrance of the day before, which she was living 
over again, gushed now from her lips, so abundant that 
she could hardly stop. She talked of their early start¬ 
ing, of the vast country, of the luncheon over there, 
in the ruins of Hautecceur, on the flagstones of a lit¬ 
tle room, the crumbling walls of which overlooked the 
Ligneul, flowing below among the willows but fifty 
yards away. She was full of it all; of these ruins, of 
these stony bones scattered under the thorns, and at¬ 
testing the enormity of the colussus which, when erect, 
ruled over the two valleys. The dungeon remained, 
sixty yards high, unroofed, split, but solid, in spite of 
all, on its foundations fifteen feet thick. Two towers 
had likewise resisted, the tower of Charlemagne and 
the tower of David, connected by an almost intact 
wall. In the interior, one still found some of the build¬ 
ings—the chapel, the justice hall, a few rooms — and the 
whole assemblage seemed to have been built by giants; 
the steps of the stairways, the aprons of the windows, 



THE DREAM 


49 


the seats of the terraces, all was of a scale out of pro¬ 
portion with the generation of to-day. It had been 
quite a strong burg in the olden times; five hundred 
men of war could sustain there a siege of thirty months 
without running short of ammunition or rations. For 
two centuries the sweet-briers had done their work, 
loosening the bricks of the tower-rooms; the lilacs and 
cytisuses brightened up the dark ruins of the shattered 
ceilings, a plane-tree had grown through* the chimney 
in the guard-room. But when, in the setting sun, the 
carcass of the dungeon lengthened its shadow over 
three leagues of cultivated ground, then the whole cas¬ 
tle seemed to loom up again, colossal in the evening 
mist, and one still felt its ancient sovereignty, the rude 
strength of which had made it the impregnable fortress 
at the gates of which trembled even the Kings of 
France. 

“ And I am sure of one thing,” continued Angelica, 
“ that it is now inhabited by spirits, and that they 
come back to it at night. After dark one hears there 
all sorts of voices; strange beasts roam round, staring 
at you, and I saw plainly, as I turned back on our re¬ 
turn home, great white figures soaring over the walls. 
Is not that so, mother? You know the history of the 
castle.” 

Hubertine wore a placid smile. 

“ Oh, ghosts? I never saw one myself.” 

But, in fact, she knew the story, read in some old 
volume, and she had to tell it once more, in answer to 
the pressing questions of the girl. 

The land belonged to the See of Rheims since Saint- 
Remi, wh) held it from King Clovis. Archbishop 
Severin, in the first years of the tenth century, had a 
fortress erected at Hautecoeur, to defend the country 
against the Normans, who came up the Oise, of which 
river the Ligneul is a tributary. In the next century, 
a successor of Severin gave it in fief to Norbert, a 
The Dream 4 


So 


THE DREAM 


second son of the house of Normandy, in consideration 
of an annual fee of sixty sous, and on condition that 
the town of Beaumont and its church should remain free. 
It was thus that Norbert I. became the head and chief 
of the marquises of Hautecoeur, the famous race of 
whose deeds history has so much to tell. Herve IV., 
twice excommunicated for thefts of ecclesiastical prop¬ 
erty, a highway bandit who butchered, with his own 
hand, thirty burghers at a time, had his tower razed 
by Louis le Gros, against whom he had dared to declare 
war. Raoul I., who had gone on a crusade with 
Philippe Auguste, perished before Saint-Jean-d’Acre, 
of a lance-thrust through the heart. But the most 
illustrious of the race was Jean V. the Great, who, in 
1225, rebuilt the fortress, erecting in less than five years 
this redoubtable castle of Hautecoeur, behind the walls 
of which he dreamt for a moment of the throne of 
France; the same Jean who, having escaped from the 
massacres of twenty battles, died in his bed, a brother- 
in-law to the King of Scotland. Then, there were 
Felicien III., who went barefoot to Jerusalem; Herve 
VII. who claimed the throne of Scotland, and all the 
Hautecoeurs, powerful and noble through centuries, 
up to Jean IX., who, under Mazarin, had to be present, 
sorrowing and humiliated, at the dismantling of his 
castle. After a final siege, the vaults and the towers 
of the dungeon were sprung by mines; these buildings 
were fired where Charles VI. had come to humor his 
folly, and where, nearly two hundred years later, Henri 
IV. had spent a week with lovely Gabrielle d’Estrees. 
All these royal souvenirs were now asleep under the 
green turf. 

Angelica, without stopping her needle, listened pas¬ 
sionately, as if the vision of these dead great ones had 
risen from her loom, by degrees, as the rose appeared 
in the tender light of its colors. Her ignorance of his¬ 
tory enlarged the facts, placed them there as the 
climax of a prodigious legend. She trembled at it, in 


THE DREAM 


51 


her ecstatic faith; the castle reconstructed itself, rose 
to the gates of heaven; were not the Hautecceurs cousins 
to the Virgin? 

“ And so,” she asked, “ our new bishop, Monseign¬ 
eur d’Hautecceur, is a descendant of this family? ” 

Hubertine replied that Monseigneur must belong to 
a junior branch, the senior branch having been extinct 
for a long time. It was a strange occurrence, his being 
appointed bishop of Beaumont, as for centuries the 
marquises of Hautecceur and the clergy of Beaumont 
had been at war. Toward 1150 an abbot undertook 
the erection of the church, with the sole resources of 
his order; the money soon failed, the edifice having 
only reached as high as the arches of the lateral chapels, 
and they had to content themselves with covering the 
nave with a wooden roof. Eighty years passed; Jean 
V. had just rebuilt the castle, when he gave three 
hundred thousand livres, which, added to other sums, 
allowed the monks to continue building the church. 
They completed the erection of the nave. The two 
towers and the great fa<pade were not finished until 
very much later, toward 1430, well in the fifteenth 
century. To reward Jean V. for his munificence, the 
clergy granted him the right of sepulture, to him and 
his descendants, in a chapel of the apsis, consecrated 
to Saint George, and which, on their account, was 
named the Hautecceur Chapel. But the good under¬ 
standing was not to last; the castle was putting the 
franchises of Beaumont in constant peril; hostilities 
were continually breaking out on questions of tribute 
and precedence. A mooted point especially, the right 
of toll which the lords presumed to levy on the naviga¬ 
tion of the Ligneul, perpetuated the quarrel, the more 
so when the great prosperity of the lower town de¬ 
clared itself, thanks to its manufactures of fine linen. 
From that time the fortune of Beaumont increased day 
by day, whereas that of the Hautecceurs went dwin¬ 
dling, until the time when, the castle once dismantled, 


52 


THE DREAM 


the church fully triumphed. Louis XIV. made a 
cathedral of it; a See-house was built in the monks’ 
close; and chance had it to-day that precisely a Haute- 
cceur would return as bishop to command this very 
clergy, always up and doing, which had overcome his 
ancestors after four hundred years of struggle. 

“ But,” said Angelica, “ Monseigneur has been mar¬ 
ried. He has a big son of twenty; is not that so?” 

Hubertine had taken the scissors to trim one of the 
parchment shreds. 

“ Yes, it is Father Cornille who told me that. 
Oh! a very sad story, indeed. Monseigneur was a 
captain at twenty-one, under Charles X. At twenty- 
four, in 1830, he sent in his resignation, and it is 
presumed that up to forty he led a dissipated life, 
voyages, adventures, duels, and the like. Then, one 
evening, at the house of some friends in the country 
he met the daughter of the count of Valen^ay, Paule, 
very rich, miraculously beautiful; she was barely nine¬ 
teen years old, twenty-two years younger than he. 
He loved her madly, and she adored him so, that the 
parents decided on an immediate marriage. It was at 
this time that he bought back the ruins of Hautecoeur 
for a song, ten thousand francs, I think, with the inten¬ 
tion of repairing the castle, where he dreamed of 
settling down with his bride. For nine months they 
dwelt hidden in an old estate in Anjou, refusing to 
see any one, finding the hours too short. Then Paule 
had a son and died.” 

Hubert, busy pouncing the drawing with white, had 
raised his head, very pale. 

“ Ah! the unfortunate! ” murmured he. 

“ It is said he nearly died from the shock,” contin¬ 
ued Hubertine. “ Fifteen days later he took orders. 
That is twenty years ago, and he is a bishop to-day. 
But, they add that for twenty years he refused to 
see his son, the babe that had cost his mother her 
life. He had him placed at an uncle’s of the mar- 


THE DREAM 


53 


quise, an old abbe , not wishing even to receive news 
of him, trying to forget his existence. One day 
when they sent him a portrait of the little one, he 
thought he saw his beloved dead once more. He 
was found on the floor, stiffened as though struck 
down by a blow from a hammer. But, then, age, 
prayer, must have appeased this great grief, for the 
good Father Cornille told me yesterday that Mon¬ 
seigneur had at last sent for his son to come to him.” 

Angelica, having finished her rose, so fresh that its 
odor seemed to come up from the satin, looked once 
more through the window bathed in sunlight, her 
eyes lost in reverie. She repeated, in a low voice: 

“ The son of Monseigneur.” 

Hubertine finished her story. 

A young man, beautiful as a god, it appeared. His 
father wished to make a priest of him. But the old 
abbe would not allow it, as the little one showed no 
calling for it. And, what a fortune! Fifty millions, it 
is said! Yes, his mother left him five millions, invested 
in city lots, in Paris; these five represent over fifty now. 
In fact, rich as a king! 

“Rich as a king, beautiful as a god,” repeated 
Angelica, unconsciously, in her dreamy voice. 

And, with a mechanical movement, she took a spindle 
filled with golden thread from the loom, to set herself 
to embroider en gripure a great lily. Having brought 
the thread to the point of the spindle, she fixed the 
end of it with a stitch of silk on the very edge of the 
vellum which gave the proper thickness. Then, work¬ 
ing, she said again without completing her thought, 
lost in the vagueness of her desire: 

“ Oh! what I would wish, what I would wish—” 

Silence fell once more, profound, disturbed only by 
a faint chant coming from the cathedral. Hubert was 
completing his drawing by touching with a brush all 
the lines indicated by the pouncing; and the orna- 


54 


THE DREAM 


ments of the cope appeared thus, in white, on the red 
silk. It was he who once more spoke: 

“ These ancient times were splendid. The lords 
wore clothes all stiffened with embroideries. At Lyons 
some stuff was sold as high as six hundred livres the elk 
You ought to read the statutes and ordinances of the 
master-embroiderers, stating that the King’s embroid¬ 
erers have the right to levy, with the help of the 
soldiery, any work-women that they may choose out 
of the other masters’ shops. And we sported a coat- 
of-arms, too: Azure, a fess between three fleurs-de-lis 
two and one. Ah ! how beautiful they were, these old 
times ! ” 

He grew silent, struck with his nail on the loom to 
loosen the powder. Then he resumed: 

“ At Beaumont, one still tells a legend about the 
Hautecoeurs that my mother used often to repeat to 
me when I was a child. An awful plague ravaged 
the town, half the inhabitants had already succumbed, 
when Jean V. — he who rebuilt the fortress — dis¬ 
covered that God had given him the power to fight 
and cure the scourge. Then, he set on and went bare¬ 
foot to all the sick, knelt down, kissed them, and, as 
soon as his lips touched them, he said: ‘ If God will, I 
will,’ and the sick were healed. That is why these words 
have remained the motto of the Hautecoeurs, who, all, 
since that time, cured the plague. Ah ! fine men they 
were ! quite a dynasty ! Monseigneur is called Jean 
XII. himself, and the Christian name of his son should 
likewise be followed by a number, as that of a prince.” 

He was silent. Each one of his remarks seemed 
to rock and prolong the revery of Angelica, and she 
repeated, in the same humming voice: 

“ Oh! what I would wish-” 

Holding the spindle without touching the thread, 
she covered the vellum with gold, carrying it from right 
to left alternately, and fixing it, at each crossing, with 


THE DREAM 55 

a stitch of silk. The great lily of gold, little by little, 
bloomed. 

“ Oh! what I would wish, what I would wish, would 
be to marry a prince — a prince I would never have 
seen before, who would come on an evening, at fall of 
day, and, taking me by the hand, lead me into a palace. 
And what I would wish, would be that he be very 
beautiful and very rich. Oh! the most beautiful, the 
richest the earth had ever borne! Horses that I would 
hear neighing under my windows; precious stones, a 
flood of them streaming to my knees; gold, a shower, 
a deluge of gold, falling from my two hands as soon as 
I opened them. —And what I would wish further would 
be that my prince should love me to madness, so that 
I might love him madly. We would be very young, 
very pure and very noble, always, always! 

Hubert, leaving his loom, had come near her, smil¬ 
ing; whereas Hubertine, in her friendly way, threatened 
the young girl with her finger. 

“Ah! Miss Vanity, ah! Miss Greedy-girl, so you 
are incorrigible? There, you are off again with your 
wish to be queen! That dream is less wicked than 

stealing sugar and answering insolently, but, at bottom, 

you believe me, the devil is underneath; it is nothing 
but passion, nothing but pride , that speaks that way. 

Gay and candid, Angelica looked at her. 

“ Mother, mother, what are you saying? Is it, then, 
a fault to love that which is beautiful and rich? I love 
it because it is rich, because it is beautiful, because it 
keeps me warm, heart and soul. A beautiful thing 
enlightens, helps one to live, like the sun. — You know 
that I am not covetous. Money, ah! you would see 
what I would do with it, with money, if I had much 
of it It would rain on the town, it would flow upon 
the poor. A real blessing for all! No more misery! 
First, you and father, I would enrich you; I would 
like to see you in dresses and clothes of brocade, 
like a lady and lord of the ancient times.” 


56 


THl BREAM 


Softly Hubertine raised her shoulders: 

“Crazy one!—But, my child, you are poor; you 
will not have a sou as your marriage portion. How 
can you dream of a prince? Would you, then, marry 
a rich man? ” 

“ What! would I not marry him? ” 

And she wore a look of profound stupefaction. 

“Ah! yes; I would marry him! — Since he would 
have money himself in plenty, what would be the use 
of my having any? I would owe everything to him, 
and I would love him all the more. ” 

This victorious reasoning delighted Hubert, whose 
head became excited by Angelica’s flight of fancy. 
He was off willingly with her, on the wing of a cloud, 
and cried out: 

“ She is right.” 

But his wife cast him a glance of disapproval. She 
was becoming severe. 

“ My child, you will find out; later you will under¬ 
stand life. ” 

“Life? I know life.” 

“ Where could you have learned to know it? — 
You are too young, you are ignorant of wickedness. 
But wickedness exists, and is all-powerful. ” 

“ Wickedness, wickedness—” 

Angelica pronounced the word slowly, as if to pene¬ 
trate its meaning. And, in her pure eyes, there was 
the same innocent surprise. Wickedness, she knew it 
well; the legend had shown her enough what it was. 
Was not wickedness the devil? and had she not seen 
the devil always reappearing to be always vanquished? 
At each battle he remained stretched on the ground, 
unmercifully beaten with blows, pitiable. 

“ Wickedness! Ah! mother, if you knew how I 
laugh at it? — One has but to overcome one’s self, and 
one lives happy.” 

Hubertine made a gesture of grieved anxiety. 

“ You will make me repent having brought you up 


THE DREAM 


5 7 


in this house, alone with us, apart from all. Yes, I 
fear that we will some day have a regret, that of hav¬ 
ing left you, to this degree, ignorant of life. How do 
you imagine the world to be? ” 

A hope brightened up the girl’s face, as, bent over, 
she led the spindle with the same continuous move¬ 
ment. 

“ You must think me very foolish, mother! The 
world is full of good people. When one is honest and 
works steadily, one is rewarded always. —Oh! I know 
there are wicked ones also, a few. But what? They 
do not count! — Good ones do not associate with them; 
they are quickly punished.—And then, you see, the 
world produces on me, from afar, the effect of a large 
garden, yes! of an immense park, full of flowers and 
sunlight. It is so good to live, life is so sweet that it 
cannot be bad.” 

She seemed indeed to have become excited by the 
blaze of the silks and the golds handled by her supple 
fingers. 

“ Happiness, oh! that is very simple. We are happy, 
are we not? And why? because we love each other. 
There! that is all the difficulty there is about it! one 
must love much and be much loved.—So, you see, 
when he whom I await comes we will know each other 
at once. I never saw him, but I know what he must 
look like. He will come in, he will say: — ‘ I come to 
fetch you/ And I will answer: — ‘I was waiting for 
you; take me.’ He will take me, and it will be done 
forever. We will go into a palace, sleep on a bed of 
gold inlaid with diamonds. Oh! it is very simple! ” 

“ You are crazy, hold your tongue!” severely inter¬ 
rupted Hubertine. And seeing her excited, starting 
on her dreams again: 

“ Be silent, you make me troubled. Wretched girl, 
when we will marry you to some poor devil, you will 
break your bones tumbling from so high only to find 


THE DREAM 


58 

yourself upon earth. Happiness, for us poor folks, is 
in humility and obedience.” 

Angelica continued, smiling, with a quiet persistence: 

“ I await him, and he will come.” 

“ But she is right!” cried* out Hubert, himself too 
much overcome, and as carried away by her fever. 
“Why do you scold her? — She is beautiful enough 
for a king to ask us for her hand. Everything hap¬ 
pens.” 

Sadly Hubertine raised toward him her beautiful 
eyes, full of wisdom. 

“ Don’t encourage her to do wrong. Better than 
any one, you know what it costs to give in to one’s 
heart.” 

He grew very pale; great tears appeared on the edge 
of his eye-lids. At once she regretted the reproof, 
and rose to take his hands; but he loosed them, re¬ 
peating, in a faltering voice: 

“ No, no! I was wrong.” 

Too agitated to sit down again, and leaving the cope 
he had just stretched, he busied himself gluing a ban¬ 
ner recently finished and still on the loom. Having 
taken the pot of Flanders glue from the chest, he spread 
some of the liquid upon the back of the stuff with a 
brush, thus stiffening the embroidery. His lips re¬ 
mained for a while a little trembling, and spoke no 
more. 

But if Angelica, obedient also, held her tongue, she 
continued her dreaming within herself; she rose higher 
and higher still in the beyond of desire, and everything 
about her told of it; her mouth, half opened as if in 
ecstacy, her eyes reflecting the infinite blue of her vis¬ 
ion. And now, her poor girl’s dream, she embroidered 
it with golden thread. It was from it that grew stitch 
by stitch upon the white satin, the great lilies and the 
roses, and the monogram of Mary. The stem of the 
lily, strewn chevronwise, had the dazzle of a ray of 
light; whereas the long, thin leaves, made of spangles 


THE DREAM 


59 


sewn together with a bit of wire ribbon, fell in a 
shower of stars. In the center Mary’s monogram was 
the shining spot, in massive gold relief, worked with 
guipure and flutings, burning like a tabernacle of glory 
in the mystic fire of its rays. And the roses of tender 
silks lived, and the entire chasuble was resplendent, 
quite white, miraculously blooming with gold. 

Then, at the end of a long silence, Angelica raised 
her head, her cheeks warm with blood from her heart. 
She looked at Hubertine with a saucy look, raised her 
chin, and said again: 

“ I await him, and he will come. ” 

It was crazy, such imagining! But she persisted. 
It would surely happen that way. She was sure of it. 
Nothing shook her smiling conviction. 

“ When I tell you, mother, that these things will 
happen.” 

Hubertine ended by shrugging her shoulders. And 
she joked her: 

“ But I thought that you didn’t wish to marry. 
Your saints, who turned your head, did not marry. 
Rather than submit to it they converted their lovers, 
and escaped from their parents, and allowed their 
throats to be cut.” 

The young girl listened, astonished. Then she 
burst out laughing. All her health, all her love of life, 
sang in that sonorous gayety. They dated from so far 
back, these stories of saints! The times had quite 
changed. God had triumphed, and no longer asked 
any one to die for Him. In the Legend it was the 
marvelous side of the tales that had attached her more 
than the contempt of the world and the taste for death. 
Ah! yes, certainly she wished to marry, and to love, 
and to be loved, and to be happy. 

“Be careful!” continued Hubertine, teasing her, 
“ you will make Agnes, your guardian, cry. Know 
you not that she refused the son of the governor, and 
preferred to die in order to marry Jesus? ” 


6o 


THE DREAM 


The great bell in the tower rang, a flight of sparrows 
flew away from the enormous ivy that encircled the 
windows of the apsis. In the work-shop, Hubert, al¬ 
ways silent, had just hung up the stretched banner, 
still damp with glue, to dry, on one of the great iron 
nails ensconced in the wall. The sun, in its turning 
motion, had changed place, brightening the old tools, 
the “ diligent,” the wicker winches, the copper candle¬ 
stick; and, as it reached the two workers, the loom at 
which they worked flamed up with its rollers and its 
laths polished by use, with all that was lying there, on 
the stuff, the wire ribbons and the spangles in the cross, 
the bobbins of silk, the spindles filled with gold. 

Then, in this warm radiance of spring, Angelica 
looked at the great symbolic lily she had just finished, 
and, widening her ingenuous eyes, she answered, with 
an air of confident cheerfulness: 

“ But it is Jesus I want! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

In spite of her vivacious gayety, Angelica loved soli¬ 
tude; and she felt all the joy of a veritable recreation 
when finding herself again alone in her room, morning 
and evening. She forgot herself, as it were, and en¬ 
joyed keenly her flights in dreamland. Sometimes, 
even, in the course of the day, when she could run up 
there for an instant, she was as happy as if it were an 
escape into full liberty. 

The room, very vast, occupied half of the space 
under the roof, of which the garret occupied the rest. 
It was entirely whitewashed, the walls, the beams, 
even to the exposed rafters of the mansarded portion; 
and in this white nudity the old oaken furniture seemed 
black. At the time they had the parlor and the large 




THE DREAM 


61 


bed-room decorated, the antique furniture, dating from 
various periods, had been removed up there : a Re¬ 
naissance chest, Louis XIII. table and chairs, an enor¬ 
mous Louis XIV. bed, a very fine Louis XV. 
cupboard. The stove only, of white delftware, and 
the dressing table—a little stand covered with oil-cloth 
—jarred among these venerable relics. Draped with 
an ancient pink chintz strewn with bunches of heather, 
and so whitened that it had become of a faded pink, 
barely perceptible, the enormous bed retained the 
majesty of its great age. 

But what pleased most Angelica, was the balcony, 
on which the window opened. Of the two windows 
formerly there, one, that on the left, had been closed 
up with the help of a few nails; and the balcony which 
formerly reigned over the whole fa£ade, extended only 
before the window on the right. As the beams, below, 
were still substantial, a floor had been laid and an iron 
railing screwed upon it, in place of the rotten old bal¬ 
ustrade. It was a delightful corner, a sort of niche, 
under the peak of the gable inclosed by scantlings 
renovated at the beginning of this century. Leaning 
out, one could see the whole fagade overlooking the 
garden, very decayed, with its base of small cut stones, 
with its wooden facing garnished with apparent bricks, 
its large bays now reduced to two. Down stairs, the 
kitchen door was overhung by a porch covered with 
zinc. And above, the wall plates of the roof, protrud¬ 
ing a yard out, were consolidated by the principal 
rafters, the foot of which rested against the fillet of the 
ground floor. Thus stood the balcony in a perfect 
vegetation of woodwork, at the bottom of a forest of 
old timber, which the wall-flowers and mosses decked 
with green. 

Since she occupied the room, Angelica had spent 
many hours there, leaning her elbows upon the railing, 
looking out. First, beneath her, lay the garden, 
darkened with the eternal verdure of tall box-wood 


62 


THE DREAM 


bushes. In an angle against the church, a clump of 
scraggy lilacs surrounded an old granite bench; while 
in the other angles, half hidden by the ivy which 
mantled the wall at the back, a little door could be 
found, opening out on the Clos-Marie, a vast plot of 
ground left uncultivated. This Clos-Marie was the 
ancient orchard of the monks. A stream of spring 
water .crossed it, the Chevrotte, where the housewives 
of the neighborhood had permission to wash their 
clothes; some poor families sheltered themselves in the 
ruins of the old tumble-down mill; and nobody else 
lived in the field, which only the “Allee des Guerd- 
aches ” connected with the “ rue Magloire,” between 
the See-house walls and those of the Voincourt man¬ 
sion. In summer, the centenarian elms of the two 
parks barred with the tops of their foliage the narrow 
horizon, enclosed, on the south side, by the gigantic 
ridge of the church. Thus hemmed in on all sides, the 
Clos-Marie slept in the peace of its solitude, invaded 
by wild grasses, planted with poplars and willows 
that the wind had sown. Over its big pebbles, the 
Chevrotte bounded, singing, with a continual crystal 
music. 

Angelica never grew weary gazing at this forlorn 
corner. And yet, for seven years she had found there 
each morning nothing but the very same spectacle she 
had looked upon the night before. The trees of the 
Voincourt mansion, the frontage of which faced the 
“ Grand Rue,” were so bushy that only in winter could 
she distinguish the Countess de Voincourt’s daughter 
Claire, a child of her age. In the See-house garden 
the thickness of the branches was still denser. Vainly 
did she attempt to perceive the violet cassock of mon¬ 
seigneur; and the old iron gate, garnished with shut¬ 
ters, opening on the Clos, must have been condemned 
long ago, for she could not remember to have ever 
once seen it so much as ajar, even to let a gardener 
pass through. Aside from the housewives handling 


THE DREAM 63 

their washing, she perceived there only the same tat¬ 
tered little beggars lying in the grass. 

The spring of that year was of exquisite sweetness. 
She was sixteen, and, up to that day, only her eyes 
had enjoyed thus watching the Clos-Marie growing 
green beneath the April suns. The budding of the 
tender leaves, the transparency of the warm evenings, 
all that odorous renovation of the earth, charmed her 
in her simple way. But this year, at the first bud, her 
heart just began to throb. There was in her a sort of 
growing flutter since the grasses had begun to sprout 
and the wind brought her the stronger odor of the ver¬ 
dure. Sudden pangs of anguish without cause, tight¬ 
ened her throat. One evening she threw herself in 
Hubertine’s arms, weeping, having no cause for grief, 
happy, on the contrary, with a bliss so profound, so 
unknown, that her whole being seemed to melt. At 
night, especially, she beheld delightful dreams; she saw 
shadows flit by; she swooned in raptures which she 
dared not remember on awakening, confused at this 
joy that the angels gave her. At times, when 
ensconced in her wide bed, she awakened with a start, 
her clasped hands pressed against her chest, and she 
was obliged to jump barefoot on the floor of her room, 
so acute was the choking feeling, and she would run to 
open the window, and remain there, shivering and 
panting, whilst this fresh air bath slowly calmed her. 
It was a continual marvel, an incessant surprise, through 
which she hardly recognized herself, impressed as if she 
received a palpable increase from these joys and pains 
she had so far ignored, from all that enchanted flores¬ 
cence of her womanhood. 

For how was it that she could not inhale such sweet 
odors without a pink flood suffusing her cheeks? Never 
before had she perceived the warmth of these perfumes, 
which fanned her like a living breath. And, also, how 
had she not noticed, in former years, the large paul- 
ownia in flowers, the enormous violet-tinged cluster of 


64 


THE DREAM 


which appeared between two elms in the garden of the 
Voincourts? This year, as soon as she looked at it, 
an emotion moistened her eyes, so strongly did that 
pale violet go through her heart. Likewise, she did 
not remember having ever heard the Chevrotte chatter 
so loud over the pebbles, among the reeds of its banks. 
The rivulet surely spoke; she heard it say vague words, 
constantly repeated, which filled her with emotion. 
Was it, then, no longer the field of former days, that 
everything thus should astonish her, under new and 
unsuspected lights! Or else was it she, rather, who was 
so changed as to feel, to see and to hear the germina¬ 
tion of life? 

But the cathedral on her right, the enormous mass 
which blocked out the sky, surprised her still more. 
Each morning she imagined seeing it for the first time, 
moved by her discovery, understanding that those old 
stones loved and thought as she did. That was not 
reasoned out — she had no science — she abandoned 
herself to the mystic flight of that gigantic thing, 
whose development had continued for three centuries, 
and upon which had been superposed the beliefs of 
generations. Below, she was kneeling with it, crushed 
by prayer, with the Romanesque side-chapels, with the 
full arched, naked windows, ornamented only by thin 
colonnettes under the archivolts. Then she felt herself 
raised, face and hands toward heaven, with the Gothic 
windows of the nave, built eighty years later, high 
light windows, divided by mullions which supported 
broken arches and rosaces. Then, again, she quitted 
the earth, enraptured, erect, with the counter-forts and 
buttresses of the choir, beautified and ornamented two 
centuries later, in a full blaze of Gothic decay, loaded 
with bell-turrets, spires and pinnacles. Gargoyles, at 
the foot of the buttresses, poured their waters on the 
roofings. A balustrade had been added, garnished 
with trefoils bordering the terrace over the chapels 
of the apsis. 


THE DREAM 


65 


The moon, at her full, lighted the Clos-Marie. 
When the astre reached its zenith the trees, under the 
white rays falling straight, threw no more shadow, but 
were like dripping fountains of silent light. All the 
field was bathed in it, a luminous flood filled it, of 
crystal limpidity; and the radiance of it was so pene¬ 
trating that one distinguished even to the frail delinea¬ 
tion of the willow leaves. The least shiver of the air 
seemed to ruffle this lake of rays, asleep in its sover¬ 
eign peace, between the great elms of the neighboring 
gardens and the giant hip-roof of the cathedral. 

Two more evenings had passed when, on the third 
evening, Angelica, about to lean out, received a 
violent shock at the heart. There, in the bright light, 
she perceived him erect, turned toward her. His 
shadow, as that of the trees, had dropped under his 
feet, had disappeared. He alone, nothing else, re¬ 
mained, very clear. At that distance she saw him as 
in daylight: twenty years old, fair, tall and slender. 
He resembled the Saint George, or some superb Jesus, 
with his curly hair, his slight beard, his straight nose, 
rather large, his black eyes, of a haughty sweetness. 
And she recognized him perfectly; never had she seen 
him otherwise. It was he; thus it was she had ex¬ 
pected him. The prodigy at last consummated itself, 
the slow creation of the invisible ended in this living 
apparition. He came out from the unknown, from 
the shiver of things, from the murmuring voices, from 
the moving effects of the night, from all that had en¬ 
wrapped her almost to making her faint away. Thus 
did she see him, two feet from the ground, in the 
supernaturalness of his coming, while the miracle sur¬ 
rounded him, from every side floating, as it were, on the 
mysterious lake of the moon. And he had for his 
escort the entire world of the Legend, the saints whose 
sticks blossomed and whose wounds shed milk. And 
the white flight of virgins paled the stars. 

The Dream 5 


66 


THE DREAM 


Angelica still looked at him. He raised his two 
arms, stretched them out, wide open. She was not 
afraid, she smiled at him. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was indeed an undertaking, every three months, 
when Hubertine began her great quarterly washing. 
They hired a woman, old mother Gabet, for four days, 
the embroidering was forgotten, and Angelica herself 
joined in, making a recreation of the soaping and rins¬ 
ing in the clear waters of the Chevrotte. Through 
the little back gate they wheeled the linen in a barrow 
as it came from the lye; they spent the days, in the 
Clos-Marie in the open air, in the full sunlight. 

“ Mother, this time I am going to do some washing 
myself! it amuses me so much !” 

And, shaken by laughter, her sleeves rolled above 
her elbows, brandishing the beater, Angelica struck 
heartily, in the joy and the health of this tough work, 
which splashed her with foam. 

“ It hardens my arms, it does me good, mother ! ” 

The Chevrotte cut the field diagonally, at first 
sleepy-like, then very rapid, rushing in huge bubbles 
over a pebbly slope. It came out of the See-house 
garden through a sort of sluice-gate, cut in at the base 
of the wall, and, at the other end, at the angle of the 
Voincourt mansion, it disappeared under a vaulted 
arch, engulfing itself in the ground and reappearing, 
two hundred yards beyond, following the “ rue Basse,” 
up to the Ligneul, into which it threw itself. And the 
current was so quick that it was necessary to watch the 
linen carefully, or one might have to run; a piece out 
of the hand was a piece lost. 

“ Mother, wait, wait! I’ll put this heavy stone 





THE DREAM 6/ 

on the napkins. We will see whether the brook dares 
carry them away, the thief! ” 

She adjusted the stone, then went back to pull an¬ 
other from the ruins of the mill, delighted to spend 
herself, to tire herself; and, when she jammed her fin¬ 
ger, she shook it, and said it was nothing. In the day¬ 
time, the family of beggars sheltered under those ruins 
went out to collect alms, dispersing over the roads. 
The Clos remained untenanted, of a delicious and fresh 
solitude, with its clumps of pale willows, its tall pop¬ 
lars, its grass — its overflow of wild grass — so rank that 
one was up to the shoulders in it. A shivering silence 
came from the two neighboring parks, whose great 
trees barred the horizon. At three o’clock already 
the shadow of the cathedral lengthened itself in a med¬ 
itation-inspiring sweetness, in an evaporated perfume 
of incense. 

And she beat the linen harder, with all the strength 
of her fresh white arms. 

“Mother! mother! how I will eat this evening! — 
now, remember, you promised me a strawberry tart!” 

For this particular washing, on rinsing day, Angelica 
remained alone. Old Mother Gabet, suffering from a 
sudden attack of sciatica, had not come, and other 
household cares detained Hubertine at home. Kneel¬ 
ing down in her box stuffed with straw, the young girl 
took the pieces one by one, shook them a longtime, till 
the water was no more tinged with it, having recovered 
its crystal limpidity. She did not hurry; she felt since 
the morning an anxious curiosity, for she had been 
thoroughly surprised at finding there an old workman 
in a gray blouse erecting a light scaffold before the 
window of the Hautecceur chapel. Were they going 
to repair the window? It certainly needed it much; 
panes were missing from the Saint George figure; 
others, broken in the course of centuries, had been re¬ 
placed by unstained fragments. Nevertheless it vexed 
her. She was so used to those gaps in the saint pierc- 


68 


THE DREAM 


ing the dragon and in the king’s daughter leading it 
with her girdle, that she already grieved for the beloved , 
images as if they were in danger of mutilation. It was 
sacrilegous to change such old things. Suddenly, as 
she came back from luncheon, her anger melted away: 
a second workman was there on the scaffolding, a much 
younger one, likewise clad in a gray blouse. And she 
recognized him; — it was he. 

Merrily, without embarrassment, Angelica took her 
place again, on her knees in the straw of the box. 
Then, with her bare wrists, she set herself shaking the 
linen in its bath of clear water. It was he , tall, slender, 
fair, with his delicate beard and the curly hair of a 
young god, as white of skin in the daylight as she had 
seen him under the whiteness of the moon. Since it 
was he, the window had nothing to fear; if he touched 
it, he could but embellish it. And she felt no disillusion 
at finding him wearing this blouse, a worker like her¬ 
self, a painter-glazier, without doubt. On the con¬ 
trary, that made her smile, so absolute was her faith in 
her dreams of royal fortune. This was all appearance, 
nothing more. She did not care to know. Some 
morning he would show himself the one he was. A 
shower of gold poured from the roof of the cathedral, a 
triumphal march struck up in the far-off rumbling of the 
organs. She did not even ask herself what way he took 
to be there, night and day. Unless he lived in one of 
the neighboring houses, he could pass only through the 
“ Allee des Guerdaches,” which ran along the wall of 
the See-house up to the “ rue Magloire.” 

Then a delightful hour went by. She bent over, she 
rinsed the linen, her face almost touching the fresh 
water; but, at each new piece, she raised her head, 
throwing a glance, wherein, despite the flutter of her 
heart, a dash of archness showed itself. And he, on 
the scaffolding, seemingly very much occupied in exam¬ 
ining the state of the window, looked at her sideways, 
embarrassed when she surprised him thus turned toward 


THE DREAM 


69 


her. It was a surprising thing how quickly he blushed, 
his color suddenly changing from its usual extreme 
whiteness. At the least emotion of anger or tender¬ 
ness all the blood of his veins rose to his face. With 
his warrior-like eyes, he was so timid when he felt her 
examining him, that he became once more as a little 
child, awkward with his hands, stammering out his 
orders to the old man, his companion. What awakened 
her gayety, in this water whose turbulence refreshed her 
arms, was her guessing him to be as innocent as herself, 
ignorant of everything, with the devouring passion to 
bite into life. One does not need to repeat aloud what 
is; invisible messengers bring it home, mute lips mur¬ 
mur it. She raised her head, surprised him turning 
his head away, and the minutes flew by, and it was 
delicious. 

Suddenly she saw him jumping from the scaffold, 
then backing away from it, as though going further 
afield in order to see better. And she nearly burst 
out laughing, so clear was it that he wished solely to 
get nearer to her. He had so clearly thrown into his 
jumping the fierce decision of a man who risks every¬ 
thing; and the touching drollness now was that he 
remained rooted a few steps off, turning his back to 
her, not daring to wheel around, in the mortal embar¬ 
rassment of his too hasty action. For an instant she 
quite thought he would start off toward the window as 
he had come from it, without giving a look backward. 
However, he took a desperate resolution, and turned 
round, precisely as she raised her head with a roguish 
laugh; their eyes met, remained as transfixed. It was, 
for both, a great confusion; they were losing counte¬ 
nance, they would never have got out of it if there had 
not occurred at the very minute a dramatic incident. 

“ Oh, heavens! ” she cried, in distress. 

In her emotion, the dimity jacket that she was rinsing 
with an unconscious hand had just escaped h^** ^nd 
the rapid brook was carrying it away. One minute 


70 


THE DREAM 


more and it would disappear at the corner of the Voin- 
court wall, under the vaulted arch, where the Chevrotte 
engulfed itself. But he had understood and rushed 
forward; the current bounded over the stones, that 
rogue of a jacket ran faster than he. He bent down, 
he thought to seize it, and caught only a handful of 
foam. Twice he missed it. At last, in his excitement 
and with the brave air with which one throws one’s 
self forward at the peril of one’s life, he entered the 
water and rescued the jacket just as it was about to 
disappear underground. 

Angelica, until then anxiously following the rescuing, 
felt laughter, good, open laughter, rise within her. 
So, this adventure she had so much dreamed of, this 
encounter on the shore of a lake, this terrible danger 
from which a young man, more beautiful than the day, 
was to deliver her, Saint George, the tribune, the 
warrior, all that ended with this glass-painter, this 
workman in a gray blouse! When she saw him coming 
back with drenched limbs, awkwardly holding the 
dripping jacket, understanding now the ridiculousness 
of the passion he had displayed in snatching it from 
the floods, she had to bite her lips to keep in the 
explosion of gayety which tickled her throat. 

He forgot all about himself looking at her. She was 
so adorable in her childishness, in that laughter that 
she was keeping back, and with which her whole youth¬ 
ful body seemed about to vibrate. Splashed over with 
water, her arms cooled by the current, she was redolent 
with purity, with the limpidity of living springs, gush¬ 
ing from under the moss of the forests. It was health 
and joy in the open sunlight. One could guess her to 
be a good housewife, and a queen, nevertheless, in her 
working-gown, with her tall figure, her long, princess¬ 
like face, such as one sees passing in the background 
of legends. He did not know how to give her back 
her linen, so beautiful did he find her; just the artistic 
beauty he loved. It annoyed him the more to appear 


THE DREAM 


7 1 


in her eyes such a simpleton, as he clearly perceived 
the effort she made not to laugh. He had to decide 
however, at once, and so gave her back the jacket. 

Then Angelica understood that if she opened her 
lips, she would burst out. The poor boy! He quite 
touched her; but it was irresistible; she was too happy, 
she wanted to laugh, to laugh breathlessly. At last, 
she could speak, wishing simply to say: 

“ Thank you, sir. ” 

But the laugh had the best of her, the laugh made 
her stammer, it cut her words, and it began to ring out 
very loud, a shower of sonorous notes, which sang to 
the crystalline accompaniment of the Chevrotte. 

He, disconcerted, could find ^nothing, not a word. 
His face, so white, had suddenly flushed up; his timid 
childlike eyes had flamed, looking like eagle eyes. 
And he had gone away, he had disappeared with the 
old workman, that she was still laughing, bent over the 
clear water, splashing herself again, rinsing her linen 
in the outburst of the happiness of this day. 

The next morning, as early as six o’clock, they 
spread out the linen, the heap of which had dripped 
over night. It happened that a great wind rose, which 
helped the drying. So much so, that, in order to pre¬ 
vent the pieces from being blown away, they had to 
load them with stones on the four corners. All the 
wash was there, spread out, very white, upon the green 
grass, smelling good of the odor of plants, and the 
field seemed suddenly to have blossomed in snowy 
sheets of daisies. 

After luncheon, when Angelica came back to give a 
look at things generally, she was soon in a great state 
of excitement; the whole wash threatened to fly away, 
so powerful had the gusts of wind become, under the 
blue sky of a living limpidity, as though clarified by 
these great winds; and already a sheet had slipped 
away, some napkins were gone, and were cunningly 
spreading themselves upon the branches of a neighbor- 


72 


THE DREAM 


ing willow. She caught the napkins again; but behind 
her the handkerchiefs were going off, and no one to 
help. She was losing her head. When she wished to 
stretch the sheets, she had to struggle. They made 
her dizzy, wrapped as they were around her with a 
snapping of flags. 

In the wind she then heard a voice crying out: 

“ Do you wish me to help you, Miss? ” 

It was he, and at once she answered lustily, with no 
other preoccupation than her housewifely care: 

“ Why certainly, do help me! — Take the other end 
over there! hold fast! ” 

The sheet, which they stretched with their strong 
arms, beat like a sail. Then they laid it on the grass. 
They again put big stones on the four corners, and, 
now that it struggled less, tamed as it were, neither he 
nor she rose, kneeling at the two ends separated by 
this great piece of linen of dazzling whiteness. 

She finally smiled, but without roguishness this time, 
a smile of thanks. He grew bolder. 

“ My name is Felicien.” 

“ And mine, Angelica.” 

“ I am a glass-painter. I have been sent to repair 
this window.” 

“ I live over there with my parents, and I am an 
embroideress.” 

The great wind carried away their words, scattered 
them in their vivacious purity under the warm sun¬ 
shine. They were telling to each other things they 
already knew, for the sole pleasure of that little bit of 
talk. 

“ They are not going to replace the window, I hope? ” 

“ No, no. The repairing will not even be noticed 
when done. — I love the picture as much as you do. ” 

“ It is true, I love it. It has so soft a color! I em¬ 
broidered once a Saint George, but how much less 
beautiful. ” 

“Oh! less beautiful?—-I saw it, if it is the Saint 


THE DREAM 73 

George on the red velvet chasuble the abbe Cornille 
wore last Sunday. A marvel! ” 

She blushed with pleasure, but suddenly cried out: 

“ Look out, please put a stone on the edge of the 
sheet at your left. The wind will take it from us 
again.” 

He busied himself, loaded the linen, which fluttered 
with the beating of wings of a captive bird, striving to 
fly away. And, as it moved no more, this time, both 
rose. Now she walked in the narrow paths of grass, 
between the pieces, giving a glance at each, while he 
followed her, very busy, with an immensely preoccu¬ 
pied air at the possible loss of an apron or a dish-cloth. 
It seemed quite natural. Therefore she continued to 
chatter, telling of her day’s work, explaining her tastes. 

“I like things to be in their place. — Of a morn¬ 
ing, the Swiss clock of the work-room wakes me up, 
always at six o’clock; if it were not light I could 
dress just as quickly; my stockings are here, the soap 
is there. Oh! order — a regular hobby of mine! 
I was not born like that, I was most untidy. Mother 
had to scold me about it, such words! — But now in 
the work-room, I can do nothing well if my chair be 
not at the same place, opposite the light. Luckily I 
am neither left-handed nor right-handed, and I em¬ 
broider with both hands. And that is a blessing, for 
but very few can do so.—It is like the flowers, I 
worship them, and I cannot keep a bouquet near me 
without suffering fearful headaches. I can stand only 
violets, and it is surprising how their smell calms me. 
At the least little trouble, I have only to smell violets, 
and I feel relieved.” 

He was listening to her, enraptured. He grew 
intoxicated with the sound of her voice, which had 
indeed an extreme charm, penetrating and prolonged; 
and he must have been especially sensitive to this 
feminine music, for the caressing inflection of certain 
syllables moistened his eyes. 


7 4 


THE DREAM 


“ Ah! ” said she, interrupting herself, “ here are the 
shirts, almost dry. ” 

Then she finished her girlish revelations, as in a 
naive and unconscious desire to make herself known. 

“ White is always beautiful, is it not? Some days I 
have enough of blue, of red, of all other colors, while 
white is always an absolute joy, of which I never grow 
tired. Nothing in it clashes; one would like to lose 
one’s self in it. We had a white cat once, with yellow 
spots, and I painted him over his spots. He looked 
well enough, but the color did not stay.—Do you 
know? I have not told mother, but I keep all the 
white silk waste; I have a whole drawer full of it — for 
no special use, just for the pleasure of looking at it, of 
touching it from time to time. And I have another 
secret, oh, a real big one! When I awake, each morn¬ 
ing, there is, near my bed — somebody; yes, a white 
figure, who flies’away.” 

He did not smile; he seemed to firmly believe her. 
Was it not all simple and natural? A young princess 
would not have conquered him so quickly among the 
magnificences of her court. She had, amidst all this 
white linen, on this green grass, a charmingly lofty air, 
joyous and sovereign, which took his heart into a.grow- 
ing hold. It was done; there was no one but her; he 
would follow her to the end of life. She continued to 
walk, with her little quick step, and he still came after, 
suffocated with his happiness, without hope of ever 
reaching it. 

But a gust blew, a flight of pieces of linen — percale 
collars and cuffs, scarfs and lawn chemisettes — was 
blown up and alighted far away like a flock of white 
birds driven by the tempest. 

And Angelica began to run. 

" Ah! great heavens! come quickly! help me now! ” 

Both threw themselves forward. She stopped a col¬ 
lar at the edge of the Chevrotte. He, already, held 
two chemisettes, caught among the high nettles. The 


THE DREAM 


75 


cuffs, one by one, were recaptured. But, in their break¬ 
neck races, three times she had grazed him with the 
uplifted folds of her skirts, and, each time, he had felt 
a tremor in his heart; his face was suffused. In his 
turn, he brushed her, as he jumped to catch the last 
scarf, which was escaping him. And she remained 
erect, motionless, choking. An uneasiness drowned 
her laughter; she no longer joked, no longer made fun 
of this big, innocent, awkward boy. What had come 
over her, that she was no longer gay, and that she fal¬ 
tered thus under this delicious pain? When he handed 
her the scarf their hands by chance touched. They 
started, gazed at each other, bewildered. She had 
stepped back quickly, and remained-some seconds with¬ 
out making.up her mind in this extraordinary catastro¬ 
phe that had befallen her. Then, all at once, affrighted, 
she started off, she ran away, her arms full of small 
linen, abandoning the rest. 

Then Felicien tried to speak. 

“ Oh! please — I beg of you.” 

The wind, redoubled, cut his breath. Despairing, 
he watched her run, as though this great wind had car¬ 
ried her off. She ran, among the whiteness of the 
sheets and the table-cloths, in the pale gold of the oblique 
sun. The shadow of the cathedral seemed to take her, 
and she was on the point of reaching her home, through 
the little garden gate, without casting back a look. 
But, on the threshold, quickly she turned, seized by a 
fit of sudden kindness, not wishing he should think her 
too angry. And, confused, smiling, she cried: 

“ Thank you; thank you! ” 

“ Was it for having helped her catch [her linen that 
she thanked him? Was it for anything else? She had 
disappeared, the gate closed. 

And he remained alone, in the middle of the field, 
under the great, regular squalls which blew, vivifying, 
in the blue sky. The See-house elms were waving 
with the long-drawn noise of a surge; a loud voice 


76 


THE DREAM 


sounded across the terraces and the flying buttresses 
of the cathedral. But he heard only the light flutter¬ 
ing of a little cap tied to a branch of lilacs like a bou¬ 
quet, and which was hers. 

From that day each time Angelica opened her win¬ 
dow she noticed Felicien below, in the Clos-Marie. 
He had the stained window for a pretext, and he lived 
there, though the work did not advance the least in the 
world. For hours he forgot himself behind a bush, 
stretched on the grass, watching between the leaves. 
And it was very sweet to exchange a smile, morning and 
evening. She, happy, asked for no more. The great 
washing was not to occur for three months; the little 
gate of the garden would till then remain shut. But, 
seeing each other daily, they would soon be gone, 
those three months. Besides, was there a greater hap¬ 
piness than to live in this way, the day for the look of 
the evening, the night for the look of the morning? 

From the first meeting, Angelica had told everything, 
her habits, her tastes, the little secrets of her heart. 
He, the silent one, was called Felicien, and she knew 
nothing more. Perhaps it should be thus, the woman 
giving herself wholly, the man sheltering himself in the 
unknown. She felt no hasty curiosity, she smiled at 
the th®ught of the things which were surely to come. 
Then, what she was unaware of did not count; to see 
each other was alone of import. She knew nothing 
about him, and yet she understood him so well that 
she read his thoughts in his looks. He had come, she 
had recognized him, and they loved each other. 

Thus they deliciously enjoyed this mutual possession 
at a distance. They fell ceaselessly in new raptures at 
the discoveries they made. She had long, thin hands, 
worn by the needle, which he adored. She noticed 
his slender feet, she was proud of their small size. All 
about him charmed her; she was thankful to him for 
being handsome; she experienced a violent joy the 
evening she observed that his beard was of a lighter 


THE DREAM 


77 


shade than his hair, thus giving to his laugh an extreme 
sweetness. He went away distractedly intoxicated 
one morning, because she had leaned out, and he had 
noticed on her delicate neck a brown signe de beaute. 
Their hearts, likewise, had unlocked themselves, rich in 
discoveries. The very gesture, ingenuous and proud, 
with which she opened her window, said, that although 
nothing but a little embroideress, she had the soul of a 
queen. Likewise, she felt he was good, seeing with 
what a light step he trod the grass. There was around 
them a radiance of perfection and of gracefulness at 
this first hour of their meeting. Each interview 
brought its charm. It seemed to them that they would 
never exhaust this felicity of seeing each other. 

Nevertheless, Felicien soon showed some impatience. 
He no longer remained stretched, hours together, at 
the foot of a bush, in the immobility of absolute hapi- 
ness. As soon as Angelica appeared, leaning out, he 
became restless, trying to get near her, and it began to 
annoy her a little, for she feared it would be noticed. 
One day even, they had quite a quarrel, for he had 
advanced up to the wall, so that she was obliged to 
leave the balcony. It was a catastrophe, he remained 
so upset by her withdrawal, his face was so eloquent 
with submission and beseeching, that she forgave him 
the next day, and leaned out at the regular hour. But 
the waiting no longer satisfied him; he began again. 
Now he seemed to be everywhere at once in the Clos- 
Marie, which he filled with his restlessness. He came 
out from behind every tree, he appeared above each 
thistle-bush. Like the wood-pigeons of the great elms, 
he must have had his nest thereabouts between two 
branches. The Chevrotte was a pretext for him to live 
there, bent over its current, where he seemed to follow 
the flight of the clouds. One day she saw him among 
the ruins of the mill, erect, on the frame-work of a 
dismantled shed, happy to be thus mounted a little 
higher, in his regret at being unable to fly up to her 


THE DREAM 


78 

shoulder. Another day she stifled a slight cry as she 
noticed him higher up than herself, between two 
windows of the cathedral on the terrace next to the 
choir chapels. How had he reached this gallery, 
enclosed by a door, of which the sexton alone had the 
key? How, at other times, did she see him again in 
the skies, among the flying buttresses of the nave, or 
near the pinnacles of the counter-forts? From these 
heights his look could reach the furthest corners of her 
room, as did the swallows flying from the point of the 
spires, who saw her when she had no thought of hid¬ 
ing herself. And, from that time, she barricaded 
herself, and a growing uneasiness seized her, feeling 
herself invaded, as if she were always two. If she her¬ 
self felt no strange hurry, why did her heart beat 
then so strongly, like the great bell of the steeple, in 
the sonorous tolling of the sacred feasts? 

Three days passed without Angelica showing herself, 
so frightened was she at the increasing audacity of 
Felicien. She vowed to herself never to see him again ; 
she tried to teach herself to hate him. But she had 
absorbed some of his restlessness. She could not 
remain in any one place, all pretexts for dropping the 
chasuble she was embroidering were good. Thus, 
having learned that mother Gabet was confined to her 
bed, in the greatest destitution, she began visiting her 
every morning. It was right near, in the “ rue des 
Orfevres,” three doors away. She arrived there with 
some bouillon, some sugar, or she went to buy some 
medicines at the chemist of the “ Grand Rue.” And, 
one day, as she arrived with her arms full of bottles, 
she was startled to find Felicien at the bedside of the 
old sick woman. He became very red, and awkward¬ 
ly slipped away. The next day, as she started on her 
merciful errand, he appeared again ; so she left him in 
possession, discontented. Did he wish to prevent her 
from seeing her poor ? It happened at the time that 
she was in one of those fits of extreme charity which 


THE DREAM 


79 


made her give herself wholly, loading with her gifts 
those who had nothing ; her being then melted itself 
in pitying fraternity at the idea of suffering. She 
used to run at father Mascart’s, a blind paralytic of the 
“ rue Basse,” whom she fed herself from the plate of 
soup she brought over *to him ; to the Chouteaux, an 
old couple of ninety, who lived on the “ rue Magloire,” 
in a cellar, where she had conveyed some unused furni¬ 
ture taken from the garret of the Huberts ; to others, 
and still to others, to all the wretched ones of the 
neighborhood, that she privately supplied with the 
things lying around her, delighted to surprise them 
and to see them made happy with something left over 
from the day before. Now at the homes of all of these, 
she always met Felicien ! Never had she seen so 
much of him, she who avoided coming to her window 
for fear of seeing him again. Her uneasiness grew, 
and she began to think herself very angry. 

In this adventure, the worst, indeed, was that An¬ 
gelica soon despaired of her charity. This boy spoiled 
her joy in being kind. Formerly he may have had 
other poor, but surely not these, for he had never 
visited them, and he must have watched her, even fol¬ 
lowed her, so as to know them, and thus take them 
from her, one after the other. Now, each time she 
went to the Chouteaux with a basket of provisions, 
there were silver coins on the table. One day when 
she ran out to bring ten sous, her savings of all that 
week, to Father Mascart, who was constantly bemoan¬ 
ing his lack of tobacco, she found him the proud pos¬ 
sessor of a twenty-franc piece, color of the sun. Even 
Mother Gabet, as she was paying her an evening visit, 
begged her to change a bank note for her. And how 
heart-breaking it was to recognize her own inability, 
for she lacked money, whilst he so easily emptied his 
purse’ Of course, on the poor peoples account, she 
ought to have felt pleased for the singular good luck 
that befell them, but still she no longer had the same 


8o 


THE DREAM 


pleasure in going to them, saddened at giving so little 
when another gave so much. The blundering boy, 
not understanding the state of things, thinking on the 
contrary to conquer her, gave vent to a touching de¬ 
sire to give largely, redoubled his charity, and killed 
her alms. And besides, she had to submit to his 
praise from all the poor; so good a young man! so 
gentle! so well educated! They spoke only of him; 
they spread out his gifts as though in contempt of hers. 
In spite of her vow to forget, she questioned them 
about him'; what had he left that day? What had he 
said? And he was beautiful, was he not? And ten¬ 
der and timid? Perhaps he dared to speak of her? 
Ah! yes, indeed, he always spoke of her! Then she 
began to hate him for good, for the load on her poor 
heart was getting decidedly too heavy. 

Well, things could hardly go on much longer in this 
way; and, one smiling evening in May, at dusk, the 
catastrophe came. It was at the Lemballeuses, the 
brood of beggar-women sheltered under the ruins of 
the old mill. There were only women there. The 
mother Lemballeuse, an old crone seamed with wrinkles, 
Tiennette, the eldest daughter, a tall, wild creature of 
twenty, her two little sisters, Rose and Jeanne, their 
eyes already grown bold under their red, unkempt 
hair. All four begged on the street, along the ditches, 
and came back to their hovel at night, their feet worn 
out with fatigue in their old shoes fastened with 
strings. And just on that evening, Tiennette had at 
last left her foot-gear among the stones, had come back 
wounded, her ankles all bloody. Seated before the 
door, in the tall grass of the Clos-Marie, she was pull¬ 
ing out thorns from the flesh, while the mother and 
the two little ones around her lamented. 

At that moment Angelica arrived, hiding under her 
apron the loaf she gave them each week. She had 
escaped through the little garden gate, and had left it 


THE DREAM 


8l 


open behind her, for she intended running right back. 
But the sight of all the family in tears stopped her. 

“ What’s the matter? What has happened ? ” 

“ Ah! my good young lady!” moaned mother Lem- 
balleuse, “ just see what a state that big dunce had put 
herself in? To-morrow, she will not be able to walk; 
it will be a day thrown away. From whom is she 
going to get shoes?” 

With eyes flaming under their manes, Rose and 
Jeanne redoubled their sobs, crying in a sharp voice: 

“ She’ll have to have shoes, she’ll have to have 
shoes.” 

Tiennette half-raised her gaunt, black head. Then, 
sullen, without a word, she made herself bleed again, 
picking savagely at a long splinter, with the help of a 
needle. 

Moved, Angelica handed her alms. 

“ Here is a loaf, at all events.” 

“ Oh ! bread,” replied the mother, '* doubtless one 
needs some. But bread will not make her walk, 
surely. And there’s the fair at Bligny to-morrow, a 
fair where she makes more than forty sous every 
year. Great holy Virgin ! What’s going to become 
of us ? ” 

Pity and embarrassment rendered Angelica dumb. 
She had just five sous in her pocket. With five sous, 
one can hardly buy shoes, even second hand. Every 
time her lack of money paralyzed her good will. And, 
at this minute, to complete her discomfiture, as she 
turned her eyes, she saw Felicien standing a few steps 
away, in the deepening shadows. He must have heard 
this great outcry, perhaps he had been there a long 
time. It was always thus he appeared, without her 
knowing how he came or whence. 

“ He is going to give the shoes,” thought she. And, 
.indeed, he was already advancing. In the violet sky, 
the first stars were peeping. A great warm peace fell 
The Dream 6 


82 


THE DREAM 


from above, hushing to sleep the Clos-Marie, whose 
willows were drowned in shadow. The cathedral was 
nothing but a black bar on the west. 

“ Surely, he will give the shoes.” 

And she felt a real despair at the thought. He 
would then give everything, not once could she sur¬ 
prise him ! Her heart beat as though it would burst, 
she passionately wished she could be very rich to show 
him that she also knew how to make others happy. 

But the Lemballeuses had seen the kind gentleman, 
the mother had thrown herself forward, the two little 
sisters whimpered with outstretched hands, while the 
bigger one, letting go her bloody ankles, looked 
askance with her deceitful eyes. 

“ Listen, my good woman,” said F&icien, “ you will 
go to the ‘ Grand Rue,’ at the corner of the ‘ rue 
Basse.’” 

Angelica had understood, a cobbler’s shop was 
there. She quickly interrupted him, so agitated that 
she stammered words, haphazard. 

“ What a useless errand ! What for ? It would be 
much simpler—” 

But she did not find it, that very simple thing. 
What was she to do? what could she invent to frustrate 
his alms? Never would she have believed she could 
hate him to this degree. 

“ You will just say that you come from me,” con¬ 
tinued Felicien. You will ask—” 

Once more she interrupted him, repeating with an 
anxious air: 

“ It would be much simpler— it would be much sim¬ 
pler —” 

All at once, calmed, she sat down on a stone, un¬ 
fastened her shoes, took them off, took off even her 
stockings, with a quick hand. 

“ There! it is so simple! why put one’s self out?” 

“ Ah! my good lady, God give it back to you!” 


ex- 


THE DREAM 83 

claimed mother Lemballeuse, examining the shoes, 
which were almost new. 

I will split them above, so that they may fit — 
Tiennette, can’t you thank the lady for them, you 
blockhead?” 

But Tiennette was snatching the stockings from the 
hands of Rose and Jeanne, who coveted them. She did 
not open her lips. 

At this moment, Angelica noticed that her feet were 
bare and that Felicien saw them. A confusion overcame 
her. She did not dare to move, certain that, if she 
rose, he would see them all the more. Then, sudden¬ 
ly, she grew alarmed, lost her head, and ran away. 
In the grass, her little feet ran, very white. The night 
had grown darker, the Clos-Marie had become a lake 
of shadow between the tall, neighboring trees and the 
black mass of the cathedral. There was nothing visi¬ 
ble on the level darkness of the ground but the flight 
of these little white feet of the satin whiteness of 
doves. 

Frightened, fearing the water, Angelica ran along 
che Chevrotte to gain a plank that served as a bridge. 
But Felicien had cut across the bushes. So timid until 
then, he had become redder than she did at seeing 
those white feet; and now he must cry out that pas¬ 
sionate love which had so completely overcome him 
from the first day, in the flower of his youth. But, 
when she brushed past him, he could only falter the 
avowal which burned on his lips: 

“ I love you.” 

Bewildered, she had stopped. One instant, quite 
erect, she looked at him. Her anger, the hatred she 
thought she felt for him, suddenly disappeared, melted 
away in a sort of delicious pain. What had he said 
that she should be thus upset? He loved her, she 
knew it, and now the word, half murmured to her ear, 
filled her with surprise and fright. He, emboldened, 


84 


THE DREAM 


his heart open and grown nearer to hers by charity, 
the ideal go-between, repeated: 

“ I love you. ” 

Then she resumed her flight, in fear of her lover. 
The Chevrotte no longer stopped her, she entered it as 
a pursued doe; her little white feet rang among the 
pebbles under the shiver of the icy water; the gate of 
garden closed; they disappeared. 


CHAPTER VI. 

For two days Angelica was cruelly disturbed by re¬ 
morse. Whenever left alone, she would sob as though 
she had committed a grievous fault. And this ques¬ 
tion-— of fearful obscurity for her — she was asking 
herself constantly: Had she sinned with this young 
man? Was she lost, like those bad women of the 
Legend, who gave in to the devil? The words, mur¬ 
mured so low: “I love you,” resounded in her ear 
with such an uproar that they surely came from some 
terrible power, hidden deep in the invisible. But, in 
the ignorance in which she had grown, she did not 
know, she could not know. 

Had she sinned with this young man? And she 
strove to carefully remember the facts; and she argued 
the scruples of her innocence. What was sin? Was 
it enough to see each other, to chat, and then to lie to 
one's parents? But that alone could hardly constitute 
sin. Then why that choking sensation? Why, if she 
were not guilty, did she feel herself becoming differ¬ 
ent, agitated as if by a new soul? Perhaps the sin was 
growing then and there, in that dull uneasiness which 
overcame her. Her heart was full of strange feelings, 
indeterminate, quite a confusion of words and of acts 
to come, which startled her before she understood them. 



THE DREAM 


85 


A rush of blood colored her cheeks; she heard the ter¬ 
rible words bursting out: “ I love you,” and reasoned 
no more, she began to sob again, doubting the facts, 
fearing the faults beyond, in that which had no name 
and no form. 

Her great torment was that she had not confided in 
Hubertine. If she could have been questioned, the 
mother would doubtless, with a word, have solved the 
mystery. For it seemed to the girl that only to speak 
about her trouble would have cured it. But the secret 
had grown too deep, she would have died with shame. 
She made herself sly, affecting a quiet demeanor when 
there was a tempest within her soul. When they ques¬ 
tioned her about her absent-mindedness, she raised 
surprised eyes, answering that she was thinking of 
nothing. Sitting before the work-frame, her hands 
mechanically drawing the needle, always very assidu¬ 
ous, she was ravaged by a single thought from morning 
tonight. To be loved, to be loved! And she, in 
turn, did she love? Still another obscure question, 
this, which her ignorance left unanswered. She re¬ 
peated it to herself till she became dizzy, till the words 
lost their usual sense, till everything ran to a sort of 
vertigo which carried her away. With an effort, she 
recovered herself, she realized anew that she was 
there, needle in hand, embroidering with her ac¬ 
customed application, but all the time in a dream. 
Perhaps some great sickness was brooding over her. 
One evening in going to bed she was seized with a 
chill; she thought she would not rise again. Her heart 
beat to bursting; her ears were filled with the droning 
of bells. Was she in love; or was she going to die? 
And she smiled peacefully to Hubertine, who, while 
waxing her thread, examined her anxiously. 

Moreover, Angelica had taken an oath never to see 
Felicien again. She no longer risked herself among 
the wild bushes of the Clos-Marie; she did not even 
visit her poor. Her fear was that something dread- 


86 


THE DREAM 


ful would happen on the day they would meet again 
face to face. Into her resolution entered also an idea 
of penitence, of punishment for the sin she had per¬ 
haps committed. So, on the mornings of specially 
rigid resolutions, she condemned herself not to cast a 
single glance out of the window, in her dread of see¬ 
ing, on the bank of the Chevrotte, him whom she 
feared. And, if tempted she did look out and he 
were not there, she was made sad by it for a whole 
day. 

Now, one morning, as Hubert was preparing a 
dalmatica, a ring at the bell called him down-stairs. 
It must have been a customer; some order, doubtless, 
for Hubertine and Angelica heard the hum of voices 
through the stairway door, which had remained open. 
Then, the two raised their heads, very much surprised; 
steps came nearer; the embroiderer was bringing the 
customer up; a very unusual thing indeed. And the 
young girl, astounded, recognized Felicien. He was in 
the plain clothes of an art-workman, but of a workman 
with white hands. Since she no longer came to him, 
he came todier, after days of vain waiting and anxious 
incertitude Spent in repeating to himself that she did 
not love him. 

“ Here, my child, is something that concerns you,” 
explained Hubert. “ This gentleman wishes to order 
some exceptional work from us. And, in truth, I 
prefer to receive him up-stairs, to talk quietly about 
the matter. It is to my daughter, sir, that you must 
show your drawing.” 

Neither he nor Hubertine had the least suspicions. 
Through curiosity alone they came forward and looked 
on. But Felicien, like Angelica, was choking with 
emotion. His hands trembled when he unrolled the 
drawing, and he had to speak slowly in order to hide 
the unsteadiness of his voice. 

“ It is a mitre for Monseigneur. Yes; the ladies 
of the town wish to make his Grandeur a present; they 


THE DREAM 


87 


have ordered me to make the sketch, and to oversee 
its execution. I am a painter-glazier, but I also work 
a good deal in ancient art. You see, I have simply- 
reconstructed a Gothic mitre.” 

Angelica, bent over the large sheet spread before 
her, uttered a slight exclamation. 

" Oh! St. Agnes! ” 

It was, in fact, the martyr of thirteen, the virgin 
clothed with her hair, from under which only her little 
hands and feet came out; the St. Agnes, just as she 
stood on her pillar, at one of the doors of the cathedral; 
as she was found, also, in the interior, represented by 
an old wooden statue, painted long ago, but now of a 
tawny color, all gilded by age. The saint occupied the 
entire front part of the mitre, erect, transported to 
heaven, borne upwards by two angels; and beneath 
her, a far-off landscape, very ethereal, stretched away. 
The reverse and the lappets were enriched by lanceo- 
lated ornaments of a beautiful style. 

“ These ladies,” Felicien went on, “ wanted a present 
for the procession of the Miracle, and I naturally 
thought it best to choose St. Agnes.” 

“ The idea is excellent,” interrupted Hubert. 

Hubertine added : 

“ Monseigneur will be very much touched.” 

The procession of the Miracle, which occurred each 
year, on the 28th of July, dated from Jean V. d’Haute- 
cceur who instituted it in thanksgiving for the miracu¬ 
lous curing power that God had sent to him and to his 
race at the time of the great Beaumont plague. The 
Legend told how the Hautecceurs owed this power to 
the intervention of St. Agnes, to whose shrine they re¬ 
mained ardent devotees ; and from that time, came the 
antique custom to bring out, on that holy anniversary, 
the old statue of the saint, thus yearly and solemnly 
paraded through the streets in the pious belief that it 
continued to avert all ills. 

“ For the procession of the Miracle ” — at last mur- 


88 


THE DREAM 


mured Angelica, her eyes fixed on the drawing, ‘ but 
it is in twenty days; we will never have the time.” 

The Huberts nodded their heads. In fact, such a 
work demanded infinite care. Hubertine, however, 
turned toward the young girl: 

“ I could help you,” she said, “ I would take charge 
of the ornaments, and you would have nothing but the 
figure to fill in.” 

Angelica still examined the saint, lost in her confus¬ 
ion. No ! No ! she would refuse, she would defend 
herself against the sweetness of accepting. It would 
be very wrong to enter into such complicity; for, sure¬ 
ly, Felicien was telling an untruth, she knew for a cer¬ 
tainty that he was not poor, that he hid his real self 
beneath this workman’s garb; and this assumed sim¬ 
plicity, this elaborate story, made out just to approach 
her, put her on her guard, leaving her amused and 
happy withal; and it transfigured him, for she clearly 
saw the royal prince that he must be, in her absolute 
assurance of the perfect realization of her dream. 

“ No,” she repeated in a low voice; “ we would not 
have the time.” 

And, without raising her eyes, she continued, as 
though speaking to herself: 

“ For the saint, one can use neither the cross-stitch 
nor the gidpure. It would be unworthy of such an 
object. — It needs embroidery in shaded gold.” 

“ Precisely,” said Felicien; “ I was thinking of this 
special embroidery; I knew that the young lady had 
found the secret of it again. There exists an antique 
and rather fine fragment of such work in the 
sacristy.” 

Hubert grew excited. 

“ Yes, yes; it is of the fifteenth century, it was 
embroidered by one of my great-great-grandmoth¬ 
ers. Shaded gold, ah! There was no finer work, 
sir. But it required too much time; it cost too much! 
Then, it demanded real artists. It has not been done 


THE DREAM 


89 


for these two hundred years. And, if my daughter 
refuses, you can give it up, for she alone is capable of 
undertaking it. I know no other who has the neces¬ 
sary delicacy of eye and hand. ” 

Hubertine, since shaded gold was being spoken of, 
had become respectful. She added, convinced: 

“ In twenty days, indeed, it is impossible. The 
patience of a fairy must be brought to such work. ” 

But, in looking steadfastly at the saint, Angelica had 
just made a discovery, which filled her heart with joy. 
Agnes resembled her. In copying the antique statue, 
Felicien must surely have been thinking of her; and 
this thought, that she was thus always present, that he 
saw her everywhere, softened her resolution to send 
him away. Then she raised her forehead, and, notic¬ 
ing him trembling so visibly, his eyes moist with so 
ardent a supplication, she was vanquished. Only, by 
that love of mischief, that inborn knowledge found in 
all girls, even when they are ignorant of everything, 
she did not wish to seem to consent. 

“ It is impossible,” repeated she, as she returned the 
drawing. “ I would not do it for any one.” 

Felicien made a gesture of veritable despair. It 
was he she was thus refusing — so he thought. About 
to leave, he said once more to Hubert: “ As to the 
price, all that you might have asked—The ladies would 
have offered as much as two thousand francs.” 

Certainly, the family was not mercenary. But, all 
the same, such a large figure moved them. The hus¬ 
band glanced at the wife. Was it not a pity to allow 
so advantageous an order to slip by? 

“ Two thousand francs,” replied Angelica, with her 
soft voice, “ two thousand francs, sir.” 

And she, for whom money did not count, restrained 
a smile, a teasing smile, which scarcely twitched the 
corners of her mouth, delighted at not appearing to 
accede to the pleasure of seeing him, thus giving him 
a false opinion of herself. 


90 


THE DREAM 


“ Oh! two thousand francs, sir; I accept—I did not 
want to do it for any one, but since such a large 
sum is offered — if need be, I will spend nights.” 

Hubert and Hubertine then insisted for refusing, 
for fear of overwork. 

“ No, no, one cannot send away money that 
comes. Count on me. Your mitre will be ready on 
the eve of the procession. ” 

Felicien left the drawing and withdrew, sore at 
heart, without mustering the courage to give new 
explanations, to remain longer. She certainly did not 
love him; she had affected not to recognize him, and 
to treat him as an ordinary customer, whose money 
only was worth taking. At first, he grew angry, he 
accused her of having a mean soul. So much the 
better! It was finished, he would no longer think of 
her. Then, as he thought it over, he ended by excus¬ 
ing her: did she not live by her work? was she not to 
earn her bread? Two days later, he felt very miser¬ 
able, he set himself once more roaming about, sick at 
not seeing her. She no longer went out, she never 
appeared at the window. And all that time he was 
repeating to himself that, though she did not love 
him, though she loved nothing but profit, he, each 
day, loved her more and more — as one loves at 
twenty, without reason, risking one’s heart for the joy 
and the pain of loving. One evening he had seen her, 
and the deed was done; now she was the one and no 
other; whatever she be, bad or good, ugly or beautiful, 
poor or rich, he would die of it if she was not his. The 
third day, his suffering became such that, in spite of 
his oath to forget, he returned to the Huberts’. 

He rang, and, down-stairs, he was once more 
received by the embroiderer, who, very soon confused 
by the technical obscurity of his explanation, decided 
to take him to the upper room again. 

“ My daughter, the gentleman wishes to explain 
some things that I don’t quite understand.” 


THE DREAM 


91 


Then Felicien, faltering, said: 

“ If it does not inconvenience the young lady too 
much, I would like to find out—the ladies recom¬ 
mended me to follow the work in person; so, unless I 
really disturb you— ” 

Angelica, seeing him reappear, had felt her heart 
throbbing violently, up to her very throat. It choked 
her. But she appeased it by an heroic effort, the 
color did not even rise to her cheeks; and it was very 
calmly, with an indifferent air, that she replied: 

“ Oh ! nothing disturbs me, sir. I work as well 
before company — the drawing is yours, it is natural 
that you should follow its execution.” 

Discountenanced, Felicien hardly dared to sit down 
without Hubertine’s welcome; but the worthy matron 
smiled, in her grave way, to this valued customer, and 
set herself at work again, bent over her frame, where 
she embroidered in guipure the Gothic ornaments for 
the reverse of the mitre. Hubert, for his part, had 
just unhooked from the wall, a banner finished and 
glued, which, for two days, had dried there, and which 
he wished to unframe. No one spoke any more; the 
two embroideresses and the embroiderer worked as 
though no one were there. 

And the young man calmed himself a little in this 
great peace. Three o’clock struck, the shadow of the 
cathedral already lengthened; an ethereal semi-light 
entered by the wide-opened window. It was the 
crepuscular hour, which began at noon for that little 
house, fresh and blooming at the foot of the colossus. 
One heard a light noise of shoes on the flag-stones, a 
boarding-school of little girls that were being taken to 
confession. In the work-room, the old tools, the old 
walls, all that remained there immutable, seemed sleep¬ 
ing the sleep of centuries; and there came also from it 
much freshness and calm. A large patch of white 
light, even and pure, struck the frame on which the 
two embroideresses were bent, with their delicate pro- 


92 


THE DREAM 


files bathing, as it were, in the fawn-colored reflection 
of the gold. 

“I wish to tell you, Miss,” began Felicien, awk¬ 
wardly, feeling that he ought to give a reason for his 
coming, “ I wished to say that, for the hair, gold 
seemed to me preferable to silk. ” 

She had raised her head. The laughter in her eyes 
clearly meant that he need not have put himself to any 
trouble, if he had no other recommendation to make. 
She bent over once more, whilst replying in a soft, 
mocking voice: 

“ Doubtless, sir. ” 

He felt very silly, for he noticed then, at this very 
moment, that she was working on the hair. Before 
her was the drawing that he had made, but washed in 
water-color tints heightened by gold, of the softness of 
tone of an ancient miniature, fading in a book of Hours. 
And she copied this image with the patience and the 
skill of an artist painting with a magnifying glass. 
After having produced the sketch in rather heavy 
strokes, on tightly stretched white satin, lined with a 
fine cloth, she had covered it with gold threads drawn 
from top to bottom, terminated singly at the ends, 
free and all close together. Then, using the threads 
like a woof, she parted them with the point of the needle 
to find the drawing beneath; then following the marks, 
she sewed the gold threads with silk stitches crosswise, 
sorting them out according to the shades in the model. 
In the darker parts, the silk completely covered the 
gold, in the demi-tints, the silk stitches were spaced 
farther and farther apart; and the lights were made 
with gold alone left uncovered. This was shaded gold, 
the background of gold which the needle shaded with 
silk, a painting in melted colors, as though heated 
below by a glory of mystic radiance. 

“ Ah ! ” said Hubert, suddenly ; he was beginning 
to take the banner off its drying frame, by winding the 
string of the trellis around his fingers, “ the mas- 


THE DREAM 


93 


terpiece of an embroideress of the olden time was 
always in shaded gold. She was to make, as it is 
written in the statutes of the guild ‘ an image standing 
alone, to be in shaded gold , of half-third a man s 
height.’ You would have been surely admitted, 
Angelica.” 

And silence fell again. For the hair —deviating 
from the rule — Angelica had been struck by the same 
idea as Felicien: that of not using silk, of covering 
gold with gold, and she handled ten needlefuls of 
threading gold of different tones, from the sombre red 
gold of dying braziers, to the pale yellow gold of 
autumn forests. Agnes, from her throat to her ankles, 
was thus clothed with the rippling of her golden hair. 
The flood started from the back of her head, covered 
the loins with a thick mantle, overflowing in front, 
over the shoulders, in two streams, which, uniting 
under the chin, rolled to the feet. A miraculous head 
of hair, a fabulous fleece,with enormous locks, a warm 
and living robe, perfumed with pure nudity. 

That day, Felicien could only watch Angelica 
embroidering the locks in split stitches in the direction 
of their curling ; he did not tire seeing the hair grow 
beneath her needle. Their depth, the great shiver 
that unrolled them all at once, troubled him. Hubert- 
ine, busy sewing spangles, hiding the thread of each 
with a bit of crispature , turned from time to time, 
covered him with her calm look, when she had to 
throw into the waste basket some ill-made spangles. 
Hubert who had withdrawn the laths to rip the ban¬ 
ner from the cloth frame, just finished folding it care¬ 
fully. And Felicien, whose confusion grew with the 
silence at last understood that he should have the 
wisdom to go, since he could not remember any of the 
observations he had intended to make. 

He rose ; he stammered : 

“ I will come again.—I have so badly reproduced 


94 


THE DREAM 


the charming outlines of the head, that you may per¬ 
haps need my instructions.” 

Angelica rested her large clear eyes on his, peace¬ 
fully: 

“ No, I hardly think so. But come again, sir, come 
again, if you feel any worry about the execution.” 

He went away, happy in the permission, distressed 
at such coldness. She did not love him, she would 
never love him; it was settled. What good, then? 
And the next day, and the days following, he came 
back to this cool house in the “ rue des Orfevres. ” The 
hours that he did not spend there were excruciating, 
ravaged as he was by his internal combat, tortured by 
uncertainty. He calmed down only when near the 
embroideress, even resigned at not pleasing her, 
consoled for everything so long as she was there. 
Every morning he came, spoke of the work, 
sat before the frame as though his presence 
were necessary; and it delighted him to see 
her delicate profile immovable, bathed in the 
blonde light of her hair; to follow the agile play of 
her supple little hands, extricating themselves amidst 
all the long needlefuls. Her manner was very simple; 
she treated him as a comrade. Nevertheless, he still 
felt between them things which she did not say, and 
which troubled his heart. Now and then she raised 
her head, with a mocking look in her impatient and 
questioning eyes. Then, seeing him startled, she 
resumed her distant demeanor. 

But Felicien had discovered a means of impassioning 
her, and he made the most of it. He spoke to her of 
her art, of the ancient masterpieces of embroidery 
which he had seen, preserved among the treasures of 
the cathedral or engraved in books; suberb copes, the 
cope of Charlemagne, in red silk with its large out¬ 
spread eagles; the cope of Sion, all peopled with saintly 
figures; a dalmatica, reputed the most beautiful ever 
made, the imperial dalmatica, on which are celebrated 


THE DREAM 


95 


the glory of Jesus Christ, on earth and in heaven, the 
Transfiguration, the last Judgment, with its many per¬ 
sonages embroidered in shaded silks of gold and silver; 
also a tree of Jesse, with its orfrays of silk on satin, 
which seem taken from a stained window of the fifteenth 
century, Abraham below, then David, Solomon, the 
Virgin Mary, then Jesus above; and such admirable 
chasubles —the chasuble of so great a simplicity, the 
Christ crucified, bleeding, splashed over with red silk 
on a gold cloth, having at his feet the Virgin upheld by 
Saint John; and best of all, the chasuble of Naintre, 
where one sees Mary seated in her majesty, with covered 
feet, holding the naked child in her lap. Others, other 
marvels, came in turn, venerable by their great age, of 
such faith, of such naivete in their unique richness lost 
to our day, keeping the odor of incense and the mystic 
glow of the faded golds from the holy tabernacles. 

“ Ah!” sighed Angelica, “ they are gone, these 
lovely treasures. One cannot find the tints again.” 

And with shining eyes, she stopped working when 
he told her the story of the great embroideresses and 
the great embroiderers of by-gone days, of Simeonne de 
Gaules, of Colin Joyle, whose names have come down 
through the ages. Then, drawing once more her 
needle, she seemed transfigured by these tales, keeping 
upon her face the radiance of her artistic passion. 
Never had she seemed so beautiful to him, so enthused, 
so virginal, burning of a purer flame, with her deep 
application, her minute and precise work with these 
fine, close stitches, into which she put her whole soul. 
He then stopped speaking, looking at her intently, until, 
awakened by the silence, she noticed the fever into 
which she threw him. 

She was upset by it as by a defeat; but soon regained 
her indifferent calm, her vexed voice. 

“Now, there! My silks are getting tangled! 
Mother, please don’t stir! ” 

Hubertine, who had not moved, smiled quietly. 


THE DREAM 


96 

She had at first become anxious over the assiduity of 
the young man, and had spoken of it with Hubert, one 
evening, in their room. But the youth did not dis¬ 
please them; he seemed very acceptable. Why should 
they oppose interviews from which the happiness of 
Angelica might result? She therefore let things alone, 
watching, however, over the young people in her pru¬ 
dent way. Moreover, she herself, for a few weeks, had 
felt a heavy heart at the useless tenderness of her hus¬ 
band. It was the month in which they had lost their 
child, and each year, with the sad date, returned the 
same regrets, the same desires; he trembled at her 
feet, passionately hoping to be at last forgiven; she, 
loving and distressed, giving herself wholly in despair 
at the unbending fate. They did not speak of it, nor 
exchange a kiss the more, before anyone; but this 
redoubling of love came out of the silence of their 
room, emanated from their persons at the least gesture, 
at the way in which, for a second, their eyes meeting, 
they forgot themselves in each other. And that 
seemed like a grave accompaniment to this idyl of 
youth. 

A week went by; the work of the mitre advanced. 
These daily interviews had taken a great, familiar sweet¬ 
ness. 

“ The forehead very high; is that not so? Without 
a trace of eyebrows.” 

“ Yes, very high, and without a shadow, as in the 
miniatures of that time.” 

“ Pass me the white silk.” 

“Wait; I will sharpen it.” 

He helped her; it was soothing, this working together. 
It placed them in the every-day routine. Without a 
word of love being ever pronounced, without even a 
voluntary touch of the fingers, the bond tightened 
each hour. 

“ Father, what are you doing? One doesn’t hear 
from you any more. ” 


THE DREAM 97 

She turned, noticed the embroiderer, his hands busy 
filling a spindle, his eyes lost, fixed on his wife. 

“ I am giving gold to your mother.” 

And, as he brought the spindle over, from the mute 
thanks of Hubertine, from the continual attentiveness 
of Hubert toward her, a warm breath of caress ema¬ 
nated, enveloping Angelica and Felicien, once more 
bent over the frame. The workshop itself, the antique 
room, with its old tools, with its peace of another age, 
was the accomplice. It all seemed so far from the 
street, away back as in a dream, in this land of good 
souls where reign prodigies, the realizations of every 
joy. 

In five days the mitre was to be delivered; and An¬ 
gelica, sure of its being finished, and of gaining even 
twenty-four hours, breathed freely, astonished at find¬ 
ing Felicien so near her, leaning on the trestle. So, 
then, they were comrades? She no longer struggled 
against his conquering her, no longer smiled roguishly 
at what he concealed and she guessed. What was it, 
then, that had sent her to sleep in her anxious wait¬ 
ing? And the eternal question came back, the ques¬ 
tion that she asked herself each night on retiring, “ Did 
he love her? ” For hours, ensconced in her wide bed, 
she had turned over the words, seeking a meaning 
which escaped her. Suddenly, that night, she felt her 
heart break, she melted into tears, her mouth pressed 
against her pillow so that she should not be heard. 
She loved him. She loved him unto death. Why? 
How? She knew she would never understand it, 
but she loved him; all her being cried it out. Light 
had come, love shone out like the rays of the sUn. 
She cried long, full of inexpressible confusion and 
happiness, taken up once more with the regret at not 
having confided in Hubertine. Her secret choked her, 
and she took a great oath to become once more as ice 
toward Felicien, to suffer all rather than to let him see 
The Dream 7 


THE DREAM 


98 

her tenderness. To love him, to love him without 
saying it, was the punishment, the trial which was to 
atone for the fault. She suffered deliciously in it; she 
thought of the martyrs in the Legend; she seemed as 
though she were their little sister, in flagellating her¬ 
self thus, and that her guardian Agnes looked at her 
with sad, sweet eyes. 

The next day Angelica finished the mitre. She had 
embroidered with split silks, lighter than gossamers, 
the little hands and the little feet, the only corners 
of white nudity which came out from under the royal, 
golden hair. 

She finished the face, of a lily-like delicacy, where 
the gold appeared like the blood of veins, under the 
epidermis of the silks. And this sun-face rose in a 
horizon of blue ether, carried away by two angels. 

When Felicien came in he gave a cry of admiration. 

“Oh! she looks like you! ” 

It was an involuntary confession, the confession, the 
avowal of that resemblance which he had put in his 
drawing. He understood it, became very red. 

“ It is true, little girl, she has your beautiful eyes,” 
said Hubert, who had come nearer. 

Hubertine contented herself with smiling; she had 
noticed it long ago; and she seemed surprised, even 
saddened, when she heard Angelica answer, in her 
voice of the old bad days: 

“ My beautiful eyes! You are laughing at me. I 
am ugly, I know myself well enough. ” 

Then rising, shaking herself, overdoing her role of a 
mercenary and cold girl: 

“Ah! it is finished at last. I have had enough of 
it— a precious load off my shoulders! — Do you know 
I would not do it again for the same money. ” 

Startled, Felicien listened. Eh! What? Money 
again? He had felt her to be for a time so tender, so 
impassioned with her art. Was it all a cruel mistake? 
and was he to find her again sensible only to the 


THE DREAM 


99 


thought of gain, so indifferent as to rejoice at her 
finished task and at his coming no more? For the last 
days he had despaired, vainly seeking under what 
pretext he could come again. And now he saw it all. 
— She did not love him; she would never love him! 

“ Miss, will you not mount the mitre yourself? ” 

“ No, indeed, mother will do that much better. I am 
too glad not to have to touch it again.” 

“ You don’t love your work, then? ” 

“ I? I love nothing.” 

Hubertine severely silenced her. And she begged 
Felicien to excuse this nervous child, and told him that 
the next day, early, the mitre would be at his disposal. 
But he did not go yet; he looked at the old workshop 
full of shade and peace, as if he were being sent away 
from paradise. He had had there hours of such sweet 
illusion; he felt so keenly that his heart was to remain 
there, plucked away! What tortured him most was 
not to have had a chance to explain himself, to remove 
the awful uncertainty. At last he had to go. The 
door was hardly closed when Hubert asked: 

“ What is the matter, my child, are you in pain? ” 

“ No; it is only that fellow that bothered me. I don’t 
wish to see him again. ” 

But Hubertine interfered, saying: 

44 Very well, you shall not see him again. Only, 
nothing prevents your being polite.” 

Angelica, withdrawing under some pretext, hadjust 
time to get up to her room. Then she burst into tears. 
Ah! how happy she was, and how she suffered! Her 
poor, dear love, how sad he must have been, going 
away! But had she not sworn to the saints that she 
would love him to death, and that he never should 
know it? 


IOO 


THE DREAM 


CHAPTER VII. 

The evening of the same day, as soon as she left 
the table, Angelica complained of not feeling well, and 
went up to her room. Her emotions of the morning, 
her struggles against herself, had crushed her. She 
went to bed immediately, and again she burst into 
tears, her head buried beneath the sheet, with a 
despairing need of losing herself, of being no more. 

The hours slipped by, the night had fully come, an 
ardent night in July, the heavy peace of which entered 
through the window, thrown wide open. In the black 
sky shone a multitude of stars. It must have been 
near eleven o’clock, the moon would not rise until 
toward midnight, in its last quarter already waning. 

And, in her dark room, Angelica was still weeping 
an inexhaustible flood of tears, when a cracking at the 
door made her lift her head. 

There was silence, then a voice called out tenderly: 

“ Angelica — Angelica— my dearest.” 

She had recognized the voice of Hubertine. Doubt¬ 
less, the latter, about to retire with her husband, had 
just heard the far-off sound of sobs; and, anxious half 
undressed, she was coming up to see. 

“ Angelica, are you ill? ” 

Holding her breath, the young girl did not answer. 
She felt but an overpowering need of solitude, the 
only relief for her pain. A consoling word, a caress, 
even from her mother, would have wounded her. She 
imagined her to be outside the door, she guessed that 
her feet were bare by the softness of her tread on the 
floor. Two minutes passed, and she still felt her to be 
there, bent over, her ears pressed to the panel, gath¬ 
ering her beautiful arms over her loosened garments. 

Hubertine, noticing nothing more, not even a breath, 
dared not call again. She was quite sure that she had 


THE DREAM 


IOI 


heard sobbing; but, if the child had finally fallen asleep, 
why waken her? She waited another minute, troubled 
at this grief which her daughter hid from her, guessing 
it confusedly, herself filled with a great and tender 
emotion. She decided to go down again as she had 
come up, her hands familiar with the least turn, with¬ 
out leaving behind her other noise in the dark house 
than the soft tread of her bare feet. 

Then it was Angelica, who, sitting up in the middle 
of her bed, listened. The silence was so absolute 
that she distinguished the light pressure of heels on 
each step of the stairs. Below, the door of the room 
opened, and closed; then she caught a barely distinct 
murmur, a whispering, affectionate and sad, what her 
parents were saying about her, doubtless, their fears, 
their hopes; and it did not cease, although they must 
have gone to bed after having extinguished the light. 
Never had the nocturnal noises of the old home risen to 
her in that way. Generally, she slept the sound sleep 
of youth, and did not even hear the creaking of the 
furniture; whereas, in the insomnia of her combated 
passion, it seemed to her that the whole house loved 
and lamented. Was it not that the Huberts also 
choked back their tears, in their dismayed and dis¬ 
tressed tenderness at their barren union? She knew 
nothing, she had the sole sensation in the warm night, 
beneath her, of this watch of the two, a great love, a 
great grief, the long and chaste embrace of nuptials 
ever young. 

And, while she was sitting, listening to the shudder¬ 
ing and sighing, Angelica could not contain heiself, 
her tears flowed again; but now they flowed silent, 
warm and living, like the blood of her veins. A single 
question, since morning, revolved within her, wounded 
her in all her being; was she right in making Felicien 
despair, in thus sending him back, with the thought 
that she did not love him driven full into his heart like 
a knife? She did love him, and she had given him 


102 


THE DREAM 


this suffering, and she herself suffered fearfully from it. 
Why so much pain? Did the saints require tears? 
Would it have angered Agnes to know that she was 
happy? Now a doubt tore her. Before, when she 
awaited him who was to come, she arranged things 
better; he would walk in, she would recognize him, 
both would go away together, forever. And he had 
come, and now both wept, forever separated. For 
what? What had happened? Who had required this 
vow from her, to love him without telling him of it? 

But especially the fear of having been guilty of hav¬ 
ing been unkind distressed Angelica. Perhaps the 
bad girl in her had grown again. Astonished, she 
recalled her affectation of indifference; the mocking 
way in which she welcomed F&icien; the roguish 
pleasure she took in giving him a false idea of herself. 
Her tears redoubled, her heart melted in a great, 
unbounded pity for the suffering she had thus caused, 
without meaning to. She saw him again and again 
going away; she had before her the desolation of his 
face, his troubled eyes, his trembling lips; and she fol¬ 
lowed him in the streets, at his home, pale, wounded 
to death by herself, losing his blood drop by drop. 
Where was he at this hour? Did he not quake with the 
fever? Ah! to cause suffering, the thought was revolt¬ 
ing to her! How she wished to be good at once, to 
make happiness around her. 

Midnight was about striking, the great elms of the 
See-house hid the moon in the horizon, and the room 
remained dark. Then, her head resting again on the 
pillow, Angelica thought no more, and wished to sleep; 
but she could not; her tears continued to flow from her 
closed lids. And the thought returned; she dreamed, 
awake, of the violets that, for fifteen days, she had 
found, on retiring, on the balcony before her window. 
Each evening there lay there a bunch of violets. 
Felicien surely threw them up from the Clos-Marie, for 
she remembered having told him that violets alone, by 


THE DREAM 


103 


a singular virtue, calmed her, whereas the perfume of 
other flowers, on the contrary, tormented her with ter¬ 
rible headaches; and he thus sent her sweet nights, 
embalmed slumbers refreshed by good dreams. That 
evening she had put the bouquet at the head of her 
bed. Suddenly she had the happy thought to take it, 
to lay it near her, near her cheek, and little by little 
was appeased by breathing it. The violets at last dried 
her tears. Still, she did not sleep. She remained with 
closed eyes, bathed in this perfume that came from 
him, happy to rest and wait in a confiding abandon of 
her whole being. 

But a great shiver passed over her. Midnight was 
striking; she opened her eye-lids; she was astonished 
to find the room full of a bright light. Above the 
elms the moon was rising slowly, putting out the stars 
in the pale sky. Through the window she perceived 
the apsis of the cathedral, very white. And it seemed 
that it was the reflex of this whiteness which lighted 
the room, a light of dawn, milky and fresh. The 
white walls, the white beams, all this white nakedness 
was enhanced by it, widened and set back as in a 
dream. She recognized, however, the old furniture in 
dark oak, the cupboard, the chest, the chairs, with the 
shining edges of their carvings. Her bed alone, her 
square bed of royal amplitude, moved her, as though 
she had never seen it; its columns, shooting up under 
the canopy of ancient rose-colored chintz, bathed in 
such a deep sheet of moonlight that she thought her¬ 
self floating on a cloud, high on the sky, upraised by a 
flight of mute and invisible wings. For an instant she 
felt like a faint swaying, then her eyes became accus¬ 
tomed to her surroundings; her bed came back sud¬ 
denly at its usual angle, but she remained with her 
head motionless, her eyes wandering about in a lake 
of rays, the bouquet of violets on her lips. 

What was she awaiting? Why could she not sleep? 
She was sure of it now, she was waiting for some one. 


104 


THE DREAM 


If she had stopped crying, it was that he was coming. 
This comforting light, which put to flight the blackness 
of bad dreams, heralded him. He was coming; the 
messenger moon had come before him only to light 
them both (with this whiteness of dawn. The room 
was draped in white velvet, so they could see each 
other. Then she rose; she dressed herself; merely a 
white dress, the muslin dress that she had worn the 
day she went to the ruins of Hautecoeur. She did not 
even bind up her hair, which clothed her shoulders. 
Her feet remained bare in the slippers. And she 
waited. 

At present Angelica did not know which way he 
would arrive. Doubtless he would not be able to come 
up, but they would see each other, she leaning over the 
balcony, he below in the Clos-Marie. Nevertheless, 
she had sat down, as though she had understood the 
uselessness of going to the window. Why should he 
not pass through the walls, like the saints of the Leg¬ 
end? She waited. But not she alone was waiting, 
she felt them all around her, the virgins whose white 
wings had enveloped her since her youth. They came 
in with the moonbeam; they came from the tall, mys¬ 
terious trees of the See-house with their bluish tops; 
from the lost corners of the cathedral, confusing its 
forest of stones. From all the horizon, known and 
loved, from the Chevrotte, from the willows, from the 
grasses, the young girl heard her dreams coming back 
to her, the hopes, the desires, that all of herself which 
she had put into things, seeing them, each day, and 
which the things sent back to her. Never had the 
voices of the invisible spoken so loud to her; she lis¬ 
tened to the beyond, she recognized, deep in that 
burning night, without a breath of air, the light shiver 
which for her was the rustle of the dress of Agnes, 
when the guardian of her body stood at her side. It 
made her joyful to know that Agnes was there with the 
others. And she waited. 


THB DREAM 


105 


More time slipped by, Angelica had no conscious¬ 
ness of it. It all appeared so natural to her when Fe- 
licien arrived, stepping over the balustrade of the 
balcony. Against the clear sky his tall figure stood 
out in relief. He did not come in, he remained in the 
luminous frame of the window. 

“ Don’t be afraid- It is I, I am come.” 

She was not frightened, she merely thought him 
punctual. 

“ It is up the woodwork, is it not, that you came? ” 

“ Yes, up the woodwork.” 

This means, so simple, made her laugh. He had 
drawn himself up first on the lintel of the door, then 
from there, climbing along the rafter, the foot of which 
leaned on the fillet of the ground floor, he had, with¬ 
out trouble reached the balcony. 

“ I was awaiting you; come near me.” 

Felicien, who had come in a strangely violent mood, 
fully determined on mad resolutions, did not stir, aston¬ 
ished at such sudden felicity. And Angelica now was 
certain that the saints did not forbid her to love, for 
she heard them welcoming him with her, with a laugh 
of affection, light as a breath of night. Where had 
she foolishly found that Agnes would get angry? Be¬ 
side her, Agnes was radiant with a joy which she felt 
fall on her shoulders, and enwrap her like the caress 
of two large wings. All those that had died of love 
showed themselves compassionate to the troubles of 
maidens, and came back only to wander on warm nights, 
so as to watch, invisible, over their tearful tenderness. 

“ Come near me, I was awaiting you.” 

The tottering Felicien entered. He had said to 
himself that he needed her, that he would seize her in 
his arms, almost choking her in spite of her cries. 
And now, seeing her so sweet, penetrating into that 
chamber so white and so pure, he became more candid 
and more feeble than a child. He had taken three 




106 


THE DREAM 


steps forward, but then he shuddered, he fell on both 
knees, quite at a distance from her. 

“ If you knew what an abominable torture! I never 
suffered thus; the one pain is to think one’s self not 
loved. I don’t mind losing all, to become a beggar, 
to die of hunger, to be distorted by disease. But I 
will no longer spend a day with this devouring anguish 
in my heart, repeating to myself, you do not love me. 
Be good — spare me-.” 

She was listening to him, mute, overcome with pity, 
yet very happy. 

“ This morning, how you let me go! I had imagined 
that you had become kinder, that you had understood. 
And I found you the same as on the first day, indiffer¬ 
ent, treating me as a mere passing customer, rudely 
calling me back to the low questions of life. On the 
staircase I tripped, outside I ran, I was afraid of 
bursting into tears. Then just as I was going to my 
room, it seemed to me that I would choke if I shut 
myself in. Then I ran away into the open country. 
I walked at hazard, one road, then another. The night 
had come, I was still walking, but the torment galloped 
as quickly and devoured me. When one loves, one 
cannot escape the pangs of one’s love. Look! there 
is where you planted the knife, and the point always 
sinks deeper — ” 

He gave a long moan at the burning recollection of 
his suffering. 

“ I remained hours on the grass, overcome by my ill 
like an uprooted tree.—And nothing more existed, 
nothing remained but you. The thought that you 
would never be mine, killed me. Already my feet 
became numb, a giddiness took away my head, 
— and that is why I came back. I do not know which 
way I passed, how I was able to reach this room. For¬ 
give me, I would have split the doors open with my 
fists, I would have hoisted myself to your window in 
the open day.” 


THE DREAM 


IO7 

She was in the shadow. He, on his knees, under 
the moon, did not see her, all pale with repentant 
tenderness, so moved that she could not speak. He 
thought her unfeeling, he clasped his hands. 

“ It dates from far back, from an evening that I noticed 
you here at this window. You were but a vague white¬ 
ness; I hardly distinguished your face, and yet I saw 
you, and I guessed you to be just as you are. But I 
was very frightened. I prowled for nights without find¬ 
ing the courage to meet you by daylight. And then 
you pleased me in this mystery; my happiness was to 
dream of you as an unknown, whom I would never 
know. Later on I knew who you were — one 
cannot resist this desire to know, to possess one’s 
dream. It is then that my fever commenced. It grew 
at each meeting. You remember, the first time, in this 
field, the morning I examined the window. Never had 
I felt myself so awkward; you were quite right to 
laugh at me. And then I made you afraid after¬ 
ward; I continued to blunder in following you even 
to your door. Already I was ceasing to be master of 
my will; I did things with the astonishment and the 
fear of doing them. When I presented myself with 
the order for that mitre, it was a force that pushed 
me, for I did not dare — I was sure of displeasing you. 
If you understood to what point I am miserable! 
Do not love me, but let me love you. Be cold, 
be unkind, I will love you as you are. I ask only 
to see you, without the least hope, for the sole joy of 
being thus, at your feet—” 

He stopped, faltering, losing courage, thinking that 
he could find nothing that would touch her. And he 
did not see that she was smiling an invincible smile 
which had grown little by little on her lips. Ah! the 
dear boy; he was so naive and so believing; he was re¬ 
citing there his heart-prayer, so new and so impas¬ 
sioned, in adoration before her as before the dream of 
his youth! To think that she had struggled at first 


108 THE DREAM 

not to see him again, then had sworn to herself to love 
him without his ever knowing it! A great silence had 
come over them; the saints did not forbid loving when 
one loved thus. Behind her a joy had sprung up, 
scarcely a shiver, the moving tide of the moon on the 
floor of the room. An invisible finger, doubtless that 
of her guardian, laid itself on her lips to release her 
from her oath. Yes, she could speak now; all that 
floated both of power and of tenderness around her, 
prompted her words. 

“ Ah ! yes, I remember, I remember— ” 

And Felicien at once was captured by the music of 
this voice, whose charm was so strong upon him that 
his love grew at merely hearing it. 

“ Yes, I remember when you came in the night — 
you were so far, the first evenings, that the slight noise 
of your steps left me uncertain. And then I recog¬ 
nized you, and, later, I saw your shadow. And one 
evening, at last, you showed yourself, a beautiful night 
like this, in the full, white light. You slowly came out 
of the things, as I had awaited you for years. I remem¬ 
ber the great laughter that I was holding back, and that 
burst in spite of me, when you saved the linen that the 
Chevrotte was carrying away. I remember my anger 
when you stole my poor from me, givingthem so much 
money that I seemed a miser. I remember my fear, 
the evening when you forced me to run so quickly, 
barefoot, in the grass — yes, I remember, I remem¬ 
ber—” 

Her voice of clear crystal had become a little 
troubled in the shiver of this last souvenir she was 
evoking, as though the breath of that “ I love you ” had 
again passed over her face. 

And he listened to her with ravishment. 

“ I have been unkind, it is quite true. One is fool¬ 
ish when one does not know ! One does things that 
one thinks necessary; one fears to be in fault as soon as 
one obeys one’s heart. But I had remorse afterwards; 


THE DREAM 


109 


how I suffered in your suffering! If I wished to 
explain that to you, doubtless I could not. When 
you came with your drawing of St. Agnes, I was 
delighted to work for you, I quite thought you would 
come back every day. And, just see, I affected indif¬ 
ference, as though I had made it a task to chase you 
from the house. Does one need to make one’s self 
unhappy ? Indeed, I wished to welcome you with 
open hands; but there was, in the depths of my being, 
another woman, who revolted, who feared and mis¬ 
trusted you, who delighted herself in torturing you 
with uncertainty, in the vague idea of some quarrel to 
be settled, of which she had forgotten the very ancient 
cause. I am not always good; there grow, at times, 
within me, things I am ignorant of— and the worst 
certainly is that I spoke to you about money. Ah ! 
money ! I who never gave a thought to it, who would 
accept car-loads of it only for the joy of causing it to 
rain where I would ! What roguish amusement could 
I take in thus slandering myself? Will you for¬ 
give me ? ” 

Felicien was at her feet. He had walked on his 
knees up to her. All this was so unhoped for, so 
boundless. 

He murmured : 

“ Ah ! dear soul, inestimable, and beautiful, and 
good, of a goodness of prodigy which cured me by a 
breath. I no longer know whether I suffered. —-And 
it is for you to forgive me, for I have a confession to 
make to you, I must tell you who I am.” 

He became again greatly troubled, at the idea that 
he could no longer hide himself, when she confided so 
frankly in him. It was becoming disloyal. He hesi¬ 
tated, however, in the fear of losing her, if she became 
anxious about the future, in knowing him at last. And 
she waited for him to speak, once more roguish in 
spite of herself. 


IIO 


THE DREAM 


In a very low voice, he continued : 

“ I lied to your parents.” 

“ Yes, I know,” she said, smiling. 

" No, you do not know, you cannot know, it is too 
far — you understand — I paint on glass only for 
pleasure— ” 

Then, with a quick gesture, she put her hand on his 
mouth. She checked the confidence. 

“ I do not wish to know — I was awaiting you, and 
you came, that is sufficient.” 

He no longer spoke, that little hand on his lips suf¬ 
focated him with happiness. 

“ I will know, later, when the time comes. But then, 
I assure you that I do know, already. You can be only 
the most beautiful, the richest, the noblest, for that 
dream is my own; I wait quite peacefully, I am sure that 
it will all be accomplished.—You are he whom I hoped 
for, and I am yours.” 

A second time she interrupted herself in the tremor 
of the words she was pronouncing. She did not find 
them herself; they came to her out of the lovely night, 
out of the great, white sky, out of the old trees and 
the old stones asleep outside, dreaming aloud her 
dreams, and voices behind her murmured them like¬ 
wise, the voices of her friends of the Legend, with 
whom the air was peopled. But one word remained 
to be said, one in which all would melt itself, the far- 
off awaiting, the slow creation of the lover, the 
increased fever of the first meetings. It escaped with 
the white flight of a morning bird rising to meet the 
virgin whiteness of the room: 

“ I love you.” 

Angelica, her two hands open, slipped to her knees, 
gave herself, and Felicien remembered the evening 
when she ran barefoot in the grass, so adorable, that 
&e had pursued her to falter in her ear: “ I love you.” 
And he well understood that she had only just answered 


THE DREAM 


III 


him by the same cry, “ I love you,” the eternal cry 
gushing at last out of her wide open heart. 

“ I love you!—Take me, take me away, I belong to 
you.” 

She gave herself in a gift of her whole person. It 
was the hereditary flame relighted within her. Her 
groping hands grasped emptiness, her too heavy head 
bent on her delicate neck. Had he stretched out his 
arms she would have fallen there, ignorant of all, giving 
way to the impulse of her veins, intent only in losing 
herself in him. And it was he who had come to take 
her, who trembled before this innocence, so impas¬ 
sioned. He softly held her back by the wrists, then 
crossed her chaste hands over her breast. For one 
instant he looked at her without even yielding to the 
temptation to kiss her hair. 

“You love me, and I love you.—Ah! the cer¬ 
tainty of being loved!” 

But an alarm drew him out of this ravishment. What 
was it then? They saw themselves in a great light, it 
seemed to them as though the rays of the moon were 
widening, more resplendent, like that of a sun. 
It was the dawn; a cloud grew purple above the elms 
of the See-house. Eh! what? already day? They 
remained astonished, they could not believe that, for 
hours, they had been there talking. And she had 
said nothing to him yet, and he had so many things to 
say to her. 

“ One minute, only one minute! ” 

The dawn, smiling, grew, the dawn already tepid 
of a warm summer’s day. One by one the stars had 
gone out, and with them the wandering visions, the 
invisible friends, had climbed up again in a moonbeam. 
Now, in the full daylight, the room was white, but 
only with the whiteness of its walls and of its beams, 
all empty, with its antique furniture of sombre oak. 
One could see the rumpled bed that one of the chintz 
curtains, falling, half hid. 


112 


THE DREAM 


“ One minute, only one minute! ” 

Angelica had risen, refusing, pressing Felicien to go. 
Since the day had grown, she was seized with con¬ 
fusion, and the sight of the bed completed it. On her 
right, she had thought she heard a slight noise, as 
her hair flew back, though not a breath of wind had 
entered. Was it not Agnes, who was leaving the last 
of all, warned away by the sun? 

“ No, leave me, I pray you—The light is so bright 
now that I am afraid.” 

Then, Felicien, obedient, withdrew. To be loved, 
that surpassed his hope. At the window, however, he 
turned, he looked long at her again, as though he wished 
to take away in himself something of her. Both 
smiled, bathed in the dawn, in this prolonged caress of 
their gaze. 

A last time he said to her: 

“ I love you.” 

And she repeated: 

“ I love you. ” 

That was all; he was already down along the wood¬ 
work with his supple agility, while, standing at the bal¬ 
cony, leaning over, she followed him with her eyes. 
She had taken the bouquet of violets, and breathed it, 
to dissipate her fever. And, when he crossed the 
Clos-Marie and lifted his head, he saw her kissing the 
flowers. 

Felicien had scarcely disappeared behind the willows, 
when Angelica became nervous, hearing, beneath her, 
the door of the house open. Four o’clock was strik¬ 
ing; they never woke but two hours later. Her sur¬ 
prise grew when she recognized Hubertine; for, habit¬ 
ually, Hubert came down first. 

She saw her slowly walking in the paths of the nar¬ 
row garden, her arms dropping loose at her side, her 
face pale in the morning air, as though oppression had 
made her leave the room, after a night of sleeplessness. 
And Hubertine was still very beautiful, in her hastily- 



THE DREAM 113 

adjusted dress, and seemed very weary, happy and 
despairing. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The next day, on waking from an eight-hours slum¬ 
ber— one of those sweet and deep sleeps which rest 
us from our great joys — Angelica ran to the window. 
The sky was very clear; the warm weather continued, 
after a heavy storm which had made her anxious the 
night before; and she cried out joyously to Hubert, 
busy opening the shutters beneath her: 

“ Father, father! here is the sun — Ah! how happy 
I am! How beautiful the procession will be !— ” 

Quickly she dressed herself to come down. It was 
on that day, the 28 th of July, that the procession of 
the miracle was to parade the streets of Beaumont. 
And, each year, at this same date, there was a holiday 
at the embroiderer’s; they did not touch a needle. 
The day was passed decorating the house, according 
to an elaborate traditional arrangement that for four 
hundred years the mothers had handed down to the 
daughters. 

Angelica, in hurrying to take her coffee, was already 
thinking about the hangings. 

“ Mother, we ought to look at them, to see whether 
they are in good order.” 

“ We have time enough,” answered Hubertine, in 
her placid voice. “ We will not hang them before 
noon.” 

They referred to three fine panels of ancient embroi¬ 
dery which the Huberts devoutly treasured as family 
relics, and which they brought out but once a year, on 
the day the procession passed their house. Already, 
on the day before, according to custom, the master of 
The Dream 8 



THE DREAM 


1 14 

ceremonies, the good abbe Cornille, had gone from 
door to door giving notice to the inhabitants of the 
itinerary to be followed by the statue of Saint Agnes, 
followed by Monseigneur bearing the holy sacrament. 
For more than four centuries this itinerary had 
remained the same; the procession, issuing from the 
Saint Agnes Door, went down the “ rue des Orfevres,” 
the “Grand Rue,” the “rue Basse;” then, having 
crossed the new town, regained the “ rue Magloire”and 
the “Place du Cloitre,” to re-enter the Cathedral 
through the main fa9ade. And the inhabitants on the 
route rivaled one another in their zeal, strewing rose 
leaves over the pebbly walks. 

Angelica was not quiet till they allowed her to take 
the three pieces of embroidery from the drawer wherein 
they had slept the whole year. 

“ There is nothing the matter with them, nothing at 
all,” she murmured, enraptured. 

As she had carefully removed the tissue paper which 
protected them, the treasures appeared, all three con¬ 
secrated to Mary: the Virgin receiving the visit of the 
Angel, the Virgin weeping at the foot of the cross, the 
Virgin ascending to heaven. They dated from the 
fifteenth century, and showed their shaded silk on gold 
backgrounds, wonderfully well preserved; and the 
embroiderers, who had refused large sums for these 
gems, were very proud of them. 

“ Oh, mother ! do let me hang them ! Will 
you—? ” 

This was quite an affair. Hubert spent the morning 
cleaning the old fa9ade. He affixed the broom to a 
long stick, dusted the wooden partition framed in bricks 
up to the timbers of the roof, then washed with a sponge 
the stone base, as also all the parts of the stair-turret 
that he could reach. And then the three pieces of em¬ 
broidery were put in their places. Angelica hooked 
them up on the time-honored hooks, the Annunciation 
under the left window, the Assumption under the right; 


THE DREAM 


115 

for the Calvary there were nails above the big window of 
the ground floor, and she had to bring out a ladder to 
hang it in its place. She had already decked the win¬ 
dows with flowers, so that the antique abode seemed to 
have come back to the far-off time of its youth, with 
its embroideries of gold and silk glistening in the lovely 
holiday sun. 

Since breakfast all the “ rue des Orfevres ” had been 
in a bustle. In order to avoid the hours of oppressive 
heat, the procession did not start until five o’clock; but, 
from noon, the town began its toilet. Opposite the 
Huberts, the goldsmith hung his shop with sky-blue 
draperies, bordered with silver fringe; while the wax- 
chandler, next door, utilized the curtains of his alcove 
— red cotton curtains, bleeding in the full light of the 
day. And there were, at each house, other colors, a 
prodigality of stuffs, all that the people had, to the very 
bed-rugs, waving slowly under the weary breath of the 
warm day. The street was clad with it, full with a daz¬ 
zling and shimmering gayety, changed as it were into 
a gallery for princely feasts open under the sky. All 
the inhabitants elbowed one another there, talking 
loudly as though at home. Some walking, with their 
arms full of fine things; others climbing, nailing, call¬ 
ing out. And there was also the temporary altar being 
erected at the corner of the “ Grand Rue,” and which 
set all the women of the neighborhood astir, eager to 
furnish the vases and candlesticks. 

Angelica ran to offer the two Empire candelabra 
which decorated the mantel of the drawing-room. She 
had not stopped since morning, but she did not even 
tire, sustained, upheld by her great inner joy. And, as 
she returned, her hair to the wind, to pick the roses to 
pieces in a basket, Hubert began to tease her, good 
humoredly: 

“ You will give yourself less trouble on your wed¬ 
ding day — or you are perhaps the one to be married 
this afternoon? ” 



THE DREAM 


1 16 


“ Why certainly, I am,” she answered gayly. 

Hubertine smiled in her turn. 

“ Meanwhile, now the house is beautified, we had 
better go up-stairs and dress.” 

“ At once, mother — as soon as my basket is full.” 

She finished stripping the rose leaves which she in¬ 
tended throwing before Monseigneur. The petals 
rained from her slender fingers, the basket was over¬ 
flowing, light, fragrant. And she disappeared in the 
narrow stairway of the turret, saying, with a hearty 
laugh: 

“ Quick, I will make myself beautiful as a star! ” 

The afternoon advanced. Now, the fever of Beau- 
mont-l’-Eglise had abated, an expectation throbbed 
in the streets, ready at last, full of the discreet whispers 
of the crowd. The great heat had decreased with the 
lowering sun; there only fell from the paler sky, between 
the close-set houses, a shade warm and delicate, of a 
tender serenity. And the hush was prolonged, as 
though the whole of the ancient city became an 
elongated annex of the cathedral itself. Alone, the 
noise of wagons rose from Beaumont-la-Ville, the new 
city on the banks of the Ligneul, where many factories 
were not even closed, disdaining the observance of the 
antique religious solemnity. 

Since four o’clock, the large bell of the north tower, 
the one whose vibration shook the Huberts’ house, set 
to ringing; and it was at the same moment that Angelica 
and Hubertine reappeared, all dressed up. The latter 
wore a gown of ecru linen trimmed with modest thread 
lace, but the figure was so youthful in its powerful 
roundness, that she seemed the elder sister of her 
adopted daughter. Angelicahad put on her robe of white 
silk; and no ornament whatever, not a jewel at her 
ears nor at her wrists, nothing but her bare hands, her 
bare neck, nothing but the satin of her skin issuing out 
of the light stuff like the blooming of a flower. An 
invisible comb, hastily placed, scarcely held back her 


THE DREAM 


II 7 


rebellious locks, of a sunny blondeness. And so she 
stood, ingenuous and proud, of a candid simplicity 
beautiful as a star. 

“ Ah!” she said, “ they are ringing now, Monseigneur 
has left the See-house!” 

The bell continued, powerful and solemn in the great 
clearness of the sky, and the Huberts brought seats in 
front, the window of the ground floor wide open, the two 
women leaning on the railing, the man standing behind 
them. It was their accustomed places, they had there 
the best position for seeing well, for discovering before 
any one else the procession as it came down from the 
further end of the church, without losing a taper of the 
endless file. 

“ Where is my basket?” asked Angelica. 

Hubert had to hand her the basket of rose-leaves, 
which she kept between her arms, close to her breast.^ 

“ Oh! that bell,” she murmured again, “ I feel as if 
it was rocking us!” 

Indeed the little house vibrated, sonorous with the 
swaying of the bell, whilst the street, the neighborhood, 
remained in expectation, seized by the sanje shudder, 
the hangings beating more languidly in the evening 
air. And the perfume of the roses was very sweet. 

A half-hour passed. Then all at once the two 
valves of the St. Agnes door were pushed open, the 
depths of the church appeared, somber, pricked with 
the little shining spots from the tapers. And first the 
cross-bearer came out, an underdeacon in a tunic, 
flanked by two acolytes, each holding a great lighted 
wax candle. Behind them hurried the master of cere¬ 
monies, the good Abbe Cornille, who, having assured 
himself of the fine state of the street, stopped under 
the porch, watching for a moment the filing off of the 
faithful, to make sure that the places had been taken 
in due order. The laic brotherhoods opened the 
march, religious societies, schools by rank of seniority. 
There were children quite small, little girls in white. 


118 


THE DREAM 


like brides, little curly, bare-headed boys, dressed in 
Sunday clothes like princes, enraptured, already glanc¬ 
ing about for their mothers. A merry nine-year-old 
walked alone in the middle, dressed as Saint John the 
Baptist, with a sheep’s skin on his thin, naked shoul¬ 
ders. Four little girls, blooming with pink ribbons, 
bore a shield of muslin, on which a sheaf of ripe 
wheat stood erect. Then there were tall young ladies 
grouped around the banner of the Virgin, other ladies 
in black, who had likewise their banner — one -of crim¬ 
son silk, with a Saint Joseph embroidered upon it; 
others came with other banners still, in velvet, in satin, 
swung at the end of gilded poles. The societies of 
men were less numerous; penitents of all colors, 
especially gray penitents, clothed in rough cloth, with 
hoods, and whose emblem made a sensation; an im¬ 
mense cross garnished with a wheel, from which were 
hung, hooked on, the instruments of the passion. 

Angelica called out, carried away by her tender 
feelings, as soon as she saw the children: 

“Oh! the loves! Just look at them! ” 

One, no higher than a boot, scarcely three years old, 
tottering and proud on his little feet, was walking on 
so funnily that she plunged her hand in the basket, and 
covered him with a handful of flowers. He toddled off 
with roses on his shoulders, in his hair. And the soft 
laugh he gave caught one after another of the by¬ 
standers, so that flowers began to rain upon him from 
every window. In the buzzing silence of the street 
nothing could be heard but the deadened treading of 
the procession, while handfuls of flowers fluttered to 
the flagstones in silent flight. Soon the walks were 
thickly strewn. 

But, reassured by the good order kept by the laics, 
the abbe Cornille grew impatient, anxious because the 
cortege had stopped for two minutes, and he hurried 
to catch up with the head ©f the long file, at the same 
time bowing, with a smile to the Huberts as he passed. 


THE DREAM 


119 

“ Why do they not go on?” said Angelica, growing 
restless as though she expected—over there at the 
other end—to find her own happiness. 

Hubertine answered with her calm air: 

“ There is no need of their running. ” 

“ Some blockade, perhaps a temporary altar that is 
being finished,” explained Hubert. 

The daughters of the Virgin had begun singing a 
hymn, and their high voices rose in the open air with 
the limpidity of crystal. From place to place the fil¬ 
ing line moved on. They had started again. 

Now, after the laics, the clergy began issuing from 
the church, its least worthy member the first. All in 
surplices, putting on the barrettas under the porch; 
and each held a lighted taper, those on the right with 
their right hand, those on the left with their left, 
forming thus a double outside row of little moving 
flames, almost extinct in the glare of day. First came 
the grand seminary, the parishes, the collegiate 
churches; then the clerici and the beneficiaries of the 
cathedral; then the canons, the shoulders covered 
with white pluviciux . In the midst, between the rows, 
trod the choristers, in red silk copes; they had just 
struck up the anthem in a loud voice, and to them all 
the clergy responded in a lighter chant. The hymn, 
Pange lingua , rose very clear, the street was full of a 
great rustling of muslin, of the wing-like fluttering of 
surplices, studded with the tiny lights of the tapers as 
with stars of dead gold. 

“Oh! Saint Agnes!” murmured Angelica. She 
smiled at the saint, borne up by four clerici in her 
blue lace-ornamented velvet litter. Each year she was 
astounded to see her thus, out of the seclusion of the 
cathedral, where she had watched for centuries, quite 
different under that bright light, with her long robe 
of golden hair. She was so old, and yet so very young 
with her little hands, her slender feet, her thin, girlish 
face, blackened by time. 


120 


THE DREAM 


But Monseigneur was to follow the saint. One 
could already hear, from the further end of the church, 
the swinging of the censers. 

There were whisperings; Angelica repeated: 

“ Monseigneur—Monseigneur—” 

And at this very moment, her eyes fixed on the saint 
just passing, she remembered the old stories, the high 
Marquesses d’Hautecceur delivering Beaumont from the 
plague, thanks to the intervention of Saint Agnes; 
Jean V., and all those of his race coming and kneeling 
before her, devotees of her image; and she saw them 
all, the lords of the Miracle, filing before her mind’s 
eyes, one after the other, like a race of princes. Then 
the chaplain in charge of the crozier advanced, 
holding it upright, with the curve toward him. Next, 
appeared two incense-bearers, walking backward, and 
swinging the censers in little beats, each having near 
him an acolyte bearing the cymbiform vessel. And the 
great dais of purple velvet, garnished with gold span¬ 
gles, had some trouble getting through one of the bays 
of the door. But, all of a sudden, order was restored, 
the appointed dignitaries taking hold of the gilt batons. 
Under the dais, between his deacons of honor, walked 
Monseigneur, bare-headed, his shoulders covered with 
the white scarf, the two ends of which covered his 
hands as they bore up the holy Sacrament, without 
touching it, very high. 

At once the incense-bearers resumed their back¬ 
ward march, and the censers swung forth, falling in 
cadence with the little silver sound of their chains. 

Where on earth had Angelica known any one who 
resembled Monseigneur? An awe lowered all the 
foreheads. But she, her head only half bent, gazed at 
him. He was tall, slender and noble looking, of a su¬ 
perb youthfulness for his sixty years. His eagle eyes 
shone, his rather strong nose accentuated the sovereign 
authority of his lace, softened by his white hair, thrown 
back in thick locks; and she noticed the pallor of his 


THE DREAM 


121 


complexion, which she thought she saw suddenly flush 
up. Perhaps it was only the reflection of the great 
sun of gold that he bore in his covered hands, and 
which seemed to place him in the glare of a mystic 
light. 

Certainly a face resembling this one evoked itself 
within her. From the first steps, Monseigneur had 
commenced the verse of a psalm, which he recited in a 
low voice, alternating with his deacons. And she 
trembled when she saw him turn his eyes toward the 
window where she was, so stern did he appear, of a 
cold haughtiness, condemning the vanity of all pas¬ 
sions. His look went to the three ancient embroider¬ 
ies, Mary visited by the angel, Mary at the foot of the 
cross, Mary ascending to heaven. His eyes seemed 
to rejoice, then fell, then fixed themselves upon her, 
without her being able to understand, in her confusion, 
whether they paled from sternness or from tenderness. 
Already they had returned to the holy sacrament, im¬ 
movable, extinguished in the reflection of the great 
sun of gold. The censers swung forth, thrown down 
with the silver sound of their chains, while a little 
cloud, a smoke of incense, rose in the air. 

But Angelica’s heart beat to bursting. Behind the 
dais, she had just noticed the mitre of Saint Agnes 
borne upward by two angels, the work embroidered, 
thread by thread, with her love. A chaplain, his 
fingers wrapped up in a veil, carried it devoutly as a 
sacred thing. And there, among the laics who fol¬ 
lowed, in the flood of functionaries, of officers, of 
magistrates, she recognized Felicien, on the first rank, 
slender and fair, clad in evening dress, with his curled 
hair, his straight nose, rather strong, his black eyes, 
of a haughty sweetness. She expected him, she was 
not surprised to see him, at last, changed into a prince. 
At the anxious look he cast upon her, imploring 
pardon fbr his deception, she ahswered with a clear 
smile. 


122 


THE DREAM 


“ Why! ” murmured Hubertine, astonished, “ is not 
that this young man? ” 

She also had recognized him, but she only became 
anxious when, turning round, she saw her daughter’s 
face transfigured. 

“ He must have deceived us? — Why? do you know 
— do you know who this young man is? ” 

Yes, perhaps she knew; a voice within her answered 
recent questions, but she did not dare, she did not 
wish to further interrogate herself. Certitude would 
manifest itself at the appropriate time. But she felt 
its approach, in a swelling of pride and passion. 

“ What is the matter? ” asked Hubert, bending over 
behind his wife. He was never up to what was going 
on. And, when she pointed out the young man to 
him, he did not even recognize him. 

“ He! is it possible? ” 

Then Hubertine pretended to have made a mistake. 

It was wiser that she should inform herself first. But 
the procession which had just stopped while Mon¬ 
seigneur, at the corner of the street, incensed the holy 
Sacrament amidst the verdure of the temporary altar, 
was about to start again; and Angelica, whose hand 
had rested at the botton of the basket, holding a final 
handful of rose-leaves, made a too rapid gesture, throw¬ 
ing away the flowers in her delighted confusion. Just 
then Felicien set out again. The flowers rained; two 
petals, slowly fluttering, alighted on his hair. 

It was the end. The dais had disappeared at the cor¬ 
ner of the “Grand Rue,” the last of the cortege moved 
away, leaving the deserted pavement awe-struck, as 
though enwrapped in a dreamy faith, in the rather 
harsh exultation of the trampled roses. And one could 
still hear, afar, growing fainter and fainter, the silver 
sound of the chains falling at each swing of the cen¬ 
sers. “ Oh, mother!” exclaimed Angelica, “ do let us 
go to the church to see them enter it again! ” 

Hubertine’s first impulse was to refuse. But then 


THE DREAM 123 

she felt so strong a desire to gain the certitude she was 
after that she consented. 

“ Yes, presently, if it gives you pleasure.” 

But they had to be patient. Angelica, who had 
already gone up-stairs to put on her hat, could not 
keep still. She came back every other miiiute to the 
window, which had remained wide open; she gazed 
inquiringly toward the end of the street, lifted her 
eyes as though to invoke space itself; and she spoke 
aloud; she followed the procession step by step. 

“ They are down the “ rue Basse. ” — Ah! there they 
are, turning toward the public square, in front of the 
Sous-Prefecture. — They never end, those wide high¬ 
ways of Belmont-la-Ville. And much pleasure it gives 
them to see Saint Agnes, those linen dealers! ” 

A fine pink cloud, delicately cut out as from a golden 
trellis, soared in the sky. It could be felt in the im¬ 
mobility of the air, that all unholy life and strife were 
suspended; that God had left His house, where every 
one awaited that He should be brought back again 
before taking up once more the daily occupations. 
Opposite, the blue draperies of the goldsmith, the red 
curtains of the wax chandler, still barred the shops. 
The streets seemed to sleep; there was nothing mov¬ 
ing, from one end to the other of the city, but the slow 
passage of the clergy, whose progress could be easily 
guessed on all points of the town. 

“ Mother, mother, I assure you that they have 
reached the beginning of the “ rue Magloire.” They 
are going up the slope.” 

She was mistaken; it was only half-past six, and the 
procession never returned before a quarter-past seven. 
She well knew that the dais was being carried at that 
very moment along the lower quay of the Ligneul. 
But she was in such a hurry. 

“ Mother, let us hasten; there will be no room for 
us.” 


124 


THE DREAM 


M Come along, then,” Hubertine said at last, smiling 
in spite of herself. 

“ I will remain,” exclaimed Hubert. “ I have to 
unhook the embroideries, and to lay the supper 
table.” 

The church seemed to them all empty, as if God 
had no longer been there. All its doors remained 
open, like those of a house in an uproar, where the 
master’s arrival is expected. Few people came in; the 
great altar alone, a severe sarcophagus in the Romance 
style, scintillated at the end of the nave, starred with 
tapers; and the remainder of the vast structure, the 
side-aisles, the chapels, were filled with darkness, as 
the twilight fell faster and faster. 

Slowly Angelica and Hubertine walked around the 
church. Below, the edifice seemed to weigh down 
the stunted pillars supporting the full arches of the 
collaterals. They passed beside the silent chapels, 
buried like crypts. Then, when they crossed in front 
of the broad gate, under the bay cut out for the organ, 
they had a feeling of deliverance as they lifted their 
eyes toward the lofty Gothic windows of the nave, 
rising high above the heavy Romance stone-work. But 
as they continued treading along the southern aisle, 
the oppressive feeling came back. At the transept- 
cross, four enormous columns stood at the four corners, 
rising in a bold line up to the vault, and there still 
reigned a sort of violet-colored light, the farewell of the 
day through the rose-windows of the lateral fag:ades. 
The two women now ascended the three steps which 
led to the choir, then turned around the apsis, the 
most anciently built part of the church, entombing one 
like a sepulchre. For a moment they halted against 
the old gate, of veiy highly wrought metal, which 
enclosed the choir on every side, to see the great altar 
all brightened up by the tiny flames of the tapers 
reflected in the old polished oak of the stalls — indeed, 
all flowered with sculptures. And thus they came 


THE DREAM 


125 


back to their starting point, lifting their heads once 
more, as if they felt the breath coming down from the 
topmost part of the nave, whilst the growing darkness 
set back and widened the antique walls, upon which 
the remaining traces of gilding and painting grew 
fainter and fainter. 

“ I knew it was too early,” said Hubertine. 

Angelica, without answering, murmured: 

“ How immense it all is!” 

It seemed to her as if she had never known the 
church, as if she saw it for the first time. Her eyes 
wandered over the motionless rows of chairs running 
to the end of the chapels, where one only guessed the 
presence of the old tombstones by the denseness of 
their shadows. But she soon found the Hautecceur 
chapel; she recognized the window, at last repaired, 
with its Saint George, vague as a vision in the dying 
day, and she felt a rush of joy. 

At that moment a vibration shook the cathedral; the 
big bell had begun to ring. 

“ Ah!” she said, “ here they are, they are coming up 
the‘rue Magloire.’” 

This time it was true. A crowd of people invaded 
the collaterals, and one felt growing from minute to 
minute the approach of the procession. The multi¬ 
tude increased with each peal of the bell; it was like 
a huge breath that came in through the great wide- 
open doors. God was coming back to His own. 

Angelica, leaning on H ubertine’s shoulder and stand¬ 
ing on tip-toe, looked at the open bay, whose high 
curve came out boldly against the white twilight of 
the “ Place du Cloitre.” First reappeared the under¬ 
deacon bearing the cross, always flanked by his two 
acolytes with their candlesticks; and behind them, 
hurried the master of ceremonies, the good abbe 
Cornille, out of breath, worn out with fatigue. At 
the threshold of the church, each new arrival showed 
itself for one second, in clear and bold silhouette, and 


126 


THE DREAM 


then was suddenly absorbed in the interior darkness. 
There came the laics, the schools, the societies, the 
brotherhoods, whose banners swinging like sails were 
quickly devoured by the sacred shadow. They saw 
once more the pale group of the daughters of the Vir¬ 
gin, who entered singing with high, seraphic voices. 
And still the cathedral swallowed its devotees, the nave 
slowly filling up, the men on the right, the women on 
the left. But the night had come, the Place, far off, 
was pricked all over with sparks from hundreds of little 
moving lights, and then the clergy came in with its 
burning tapers in two files, a double cordon of yellow 
flames stepping over the threshold. It seemed never 
to end, the tapers succeeding each other, multiplying 
as it were; the grand seminary, the parishes, the 
cathedral clergy, the choristers intoning the anthem, 
the canons in their white pluviaux. And then, little by 
little, the church lighted up, peopled itself with these 
flames, becoming all illuminated, all studded with 
these hundreds of stars, like a summer sky. 

Two chairs were empty; Angelica stood on one of 
them. 

“ Come down,” Hubertine kept repeating, “ it is 
forbidden.” 

But she remained quietly obstinate. 

“Why forbidden? I want to see — oh! isn’t it 
beautiful ! ” and she finally induced her mother to 
stand on the other chair. 

Now all the cathedral glowed, ardent. This surge 
of tapers thus traversing it, lit up everywhere bright 
reflections under the low vaults of the side aisles, or 
at the bottom of the chapels, where shone, here the 
glass-pane of a shrine, there the gold of a tabernacle. 
Even around the circumference of the apsis up to the 
very sepulchral crypts rays awoke. The choir fairly 
blazed, with its altar aflame, its shining stalls, its old 
gate, whose roses were brought out in contrasting 
black. And the dizzy height of the nave revealed 


THE DREAM 


127 


itself again; below, the heavy, stunted pillars support¬ 
ing the full arches; above, the sheaves of little columns 
growing thinner, as if blooming among the broken 
arches of the ogives, quite an uplifting of faith and 
love, like a very bursting out of light. 

Then, above the roll of feet and the moving of 
chairs, one heard once more the clear chains of the 
censers falling, and the organist suddenly struck out a 
masterly chord, which overflowed, which filled the 
vaults as with the roaring of thunder. It announced 
Monseigneur, just crossing on the Place. 

Saint Agnes had reached the apsis, still carried up by 
the clerks, her face as though soothed by the rays of 
the tapers, happy to return to her dreamings four cen • 
turies long. At last, preceded by the crozier, followed 
by the mitre, Monseigneur passed the gate, holding the 
holy sacrament with the same gesture, his two hands 
covered with the scarf. The dais, which moved 
through the middle of the nave, stopped before the 
gate of the choir. There was at that point a little con¬ 
fusion; the bishop was approached for a moment by 
the persons of his suite. 

Since Felicien had reappeared behind the mitre, 
Angelica did not take her eyes off him, Now it hap¬ 
pened that he found himself borne to the right of the 
dais; and, at that moment, she took in, in one look, the 
white head of Monseigneur and the blonde head of the 
young man. A radiance had passed over her eyelids, 
she joined her hands, and spoke aloud: 

“ Oh! Monseigneur, the son of Monseigneur! ” 

Her secret had escaped her. It was an involuntary 
cry, as of a certitude at last declaring itself under the 
sudden light of their resemblance. Perhaps, within 
her, she knew it already, but she would never have 
dared to murmur it to harself. Whereas now it burst 
forth, it dazed her. From everywhere, from, herself 
and from things, remembrance rose, repeating her 
cry. 


12 8 


THE DREAM 


Hubertine, startled, murmured: 

“ The son of Monseigneur, that boy?” 

Around these two, people had crowded who knew 
them, who admired them; the mother, still adorable in 
her costume of simple linen; the daughter, with the 
grace of an archangel, in her silk dress of a feathery 
suppleness. They were so beautiful and so fully in 
sight, thus mounted on chairs, that many looks were 
turned upward, lost in contemplation. 

“ Why, certainly, my good lady,” said Mother Lem- 
balleuse, who found herself in the group. “ Why, yes; 
the son of Monseigneur. What? Did you not know? 
And a fine young man he is; and rich, ah! rich enough 
to buy the town if he wished. Millions and millions.” 

Quite pale, Hubertine listened. 

“ You surely have heard the story? ” continued the 
old beggar woman. “ His mother died in giving him 
birth, and it was then that Monseigneur became a priest. 
Lately he has decided to call him here — Felicien VII. 
d’Hautecceur — as one might call a reigning prince.” 

Then Hubertine gave way to a great gesture of 
grief, whilst Angelica shone forth, face to face with her 
dream thus realized. Oh! no, she was not astonished, 
she knew well that he was to be the richest of the rich, 
the noblest of the noble; but her joy was immense, 
perfect, without anxiety about obstacles which she did 
not foresee. At last he had declared himself, he 
had given himself up in his turn. The golden light 
poured forth from the tiny flames of the tapers, the 
organ sang out the pomp of their betrothal, the line 
of the Hautecoeurs filed royally along, from the depths 
of the Legend. Norbert I., Jean V., Felicien III., 
Jean XII., then the last, Felicien VII., who was turn¬ 
ing toward her his blonde head. He was the descend¬ 
ant of the cousins of the Virgin, the master, the superb 
Messiah, revealing himself in his glory, close to his 
father. 

Just then, Felicien smiled at her, and she did not 


THE DREAM 


I29 


see the irritated look of Monseigneur, who just noticed 
her standing on the chair, above the crowd, her face 
flushed full of pride and passion. 

“ Ah! my poor child,” sighed Hubertine, in de¬ 
spair. 

But the chaplains and the acolytes ranged them¬ 
selves to right and left, and the first deacon, having 
taken the holy Sacrament from the hands of Mon¬ 
seigneur, laid it on the altar. It was the final bene¬ 
diction, the Tantum Ergo , roared out by the choristers, 
the incense of the cymbiform vessels smoking in the 
censers, the great sudden silence of the orison. And, 
in the middle of the glowing church, overflowing with 
clergy and people, under the lofty vaults, Monseigneur 
ascended the altar, took with his two hands the great 
sun of gold, and waved it three times in the air, in a 
slow sign of the cross. 


CHAPTER IX. 

That evening, coming home from church, Angelica 
thought: “ I shall see him presently; he will be in the 
Clos-Marie, and I will go down to meet him.” Their 
eyes had set this rendezvous. 

It was not until eight o’clock that they dined, in the 
kitchen, as usual. Only Hubert spoke, excited by 
this fete-day. Hubertine, thoughtful, scarcely an¬ 
swered, not taking her eyes off the young girl, who 
was eating heartily, but all unconscious, hardly appear¬ 
ing to notice that she carried her fork to her mouth, 
so absorbed was she in her dream. And Hubertine 
read her clearly, saw the thoughts gathering and fol¬ 
lowing each other one by one beneath that candid 
brow, as beneath a crystal of the purest water. 

The Dream 9 


130 


THE DREAM 


At nine o’clock a ring of the bell surprised them. 
It was the Abbe Cornille. In spite of his fatigue, he 
had come round to tell them how much Monseigneur 
had admired the three ancient panels of embroidery. 

“ Yes, he spoke of them in my presence. I knew 
that you would be glad to know of it. ” 

Angelica, the name of Monseigneur being pro¬ 
nounced, showed herself interested, but fell once more 
to dreaming, as they began talking of the procession. 
Then, after a few minutes, she arose. 

“ Where are you going? ” inquired Hubertine. 

The question startled her, as though she did not 
know herself what she intended doing. 

“ Mother, I am going up-stairs. I am very tired. ” 

But, behind that excuse, Hubertine guessed the real 
reason, the need to be alone with her happiness. 

“ Come, and kiss me. ” 

When she held her pressed close in her arms, she 
felt her tremble. The young girl almost avoided giv¬ 
ing her the evening kiss. Then, very grave, Hubertine 
looked in her face and read in her eyes the accepted 
rendezvous, the eagerness to be there. 

“ Be a good girl, sleep well.” 

But Angelica, after a hurried good-night to Hubert 
and the Abbe Cornille, was already half way to her room, 
bewildered, so surely did she feel her secret on the tip 
of her tongue. If the mother had kept her one more 
second against her heart, she would have spoken. 
When she had closed the door and double-locked it, 
the light so hurt her that she blew out the candle. 
The moon was rising later, and the night was very 
sombre. So, without undressing, she sat before the 
window opened on the darkness, and waited for 
hours. The minutes sped rapidly, the one idea suf¬ 
ficed to occupy her; she would go down to meet him 
when midnight struck. It all would happen very nat¬ 
urally; she saw herself act, step by step, gesture by 
gesture, with that ease one has in dreams. Just as she 


THE DREAM 


131 

entered her room, she heard the Abbe Cornille taking 
his leave. Then the Huberts, in turn, went to their 
room. Twice she fancied she heard their door open, 
and furtive feet advancing to the staircase, as though 
some one had come to listen there an instant. Then 
the house seemed to sink into profound sleep. 

When the hour struck, Angelica rose. 

“ Come, he is waiting for me.” 

And she opened the door, which she did not even 
close after her. On the staircase, passing the Huberts’ 
room, she lent an ear; but heard nothing, nothing but 
the shiver of silence. Moreover, she felt perfectly at 
her ease, without fright or hurry, having no conscious¬ 
ness of doing any wrong. A strange power moved her, 
it all seemed so simple to her that the idea of danger 
would have made her smile. Down-stairs she went 
out into the garden, through the kitchen, and here 
again she forgot to close the shutter. Then, with a few 
quick steps, she reached the little gate which gave 
access to the “ Clos-Marie,” leaving that also wide 
open behind her. In the Clos, in spite of the thick 
shadow, she felt no hesitation, and walked straight to 
the plank, crossing the Chevrotte, fearlessly groping 
on in that familiar place where each tree was known 
to her. And turning to the right, under a willow, she 
had only to stretch out her arm to meet the hands of 
him whom she knew to be there awaiting her. 

For one instant of silence Angelica clasped in her 
own the hands of Felicien. They could not see each 
other, the sky was darkened as by a mist of heat, 
whilst the thin crescent of the moon did not yet 
brighten up the heavens. And she spoke in the dark¬ 
ness, her whole heart unburdening itself of its great 
joy. 

“ Ah! my dear lord, how I love, you and how I 
thank you!” 

She laughed at knowing him at last, she thanked 
him for being young, handsome, rich, even more so 




132 


THE DREAM 


than she had ever hoped for. It was a ringing joyful¬ 
ness, a cry of wonderment and gratitude before this gift 
of love which accomplished her fullest dream. 

“ You are the king, you are my master, and here am 
I, your own; I have but one regret, that of being so 
little — But, then, I have the pride of belonging to 
you. To be loved by you is enough to make of me a 
queen — In spite of my knowing and awaiting you, 
my heart seems to stretch since you have grown so 
big in it. —Ah! my dear lord, how I thank you and 
how I love you!” 

Then, gently, he slipped his arm around her waist, 
and led her away, saying: 

“ Come with me.” 

He brought her to the end of the Clos-Marie, across 
the wild grass; and then she understood how he had 
passed, each evening, through the gate of the See- 
house. He took her on his arm through the wide 
garden of Monseigneur. The moon, slowly rising in 
the heavens, but still hidden behind a veil of warm 
mist, seemed to bathe them in its white, milky trans¬ 
parency. The whole vault, without a star, was full of 
a dust of light which fell from it, silent, in the serenity 
of the night. Slowly they walked up to the Chevrotte, 
whose course crossed the park; but here it was no 
more the rapid stream, rushing down a pebbly slope; 
it was a calm body of water, a languishing river, glid¬ 
ing among clumps of trees. And under the lumi¬ 
nous clouds, between these trees, bathed and floating, 
this Elysian-like stream seemed to enroll itself as in a 
dream. 

Angelica had resumed, joyously: 

“ I am so proud and so happy to be thus on your 
arm!” 

Felicien, enraptured at such simplicity and charm, 
listened while she spoke, so unrestrained, hiding noth¬ 
ing, saying aloud all she thought, in the naivete of her 
(heart. Then he said: 


THE DREAM 


133 


“ Ah, dear love, it is I who am ungrateful to you, 
that you are so good as to love me a little, so pret¬ 
tily. Tell me again how you love me; tell me what 
passed within you when at last you knew who I was.” 

But, with a pretty gesture of impatience, she inter¬ 
rupted him. 

“ No, no; let us speak of you, of nothing but you. 
What do I count! What does it matter who I am! 
what I think! You alone exist now.” 

And pressing closer to him, slackening her pace 
along the enchanted river, she questioned him cease¬ 
lessly. She wished to know everything, his childhood, 
his youth, the twenty years he had lived away from his 
father. 

“ I know that your mother died at your birth, and 
that you grew up at an uncle’s — an old abbe. I know 
that Monseigneur refused to see you —” 

Then Felicien spoke very low, in a far-off voice 
which seemed to rise from the past. 

“ Yes, my father adored my mother. I was guilty 
of coming and of killing her. My uncle brought me 
up in ignorance of my family, roughly, as though I 
had been a poor child confided to his care. I knew 
the truth very late, indeed, scarcely two years ago. 
But it did not surprise me; I felt this great fortune 
behind me. All regular work tired me; I was good 
for nothing but running in the fields. Then my ardent 
love for the stained windows of our little church declared 
itself. ” 

Angelica laughed, and he also became merry. 

“ I am a worker, like yourself; I had decided to earn 
my living painting windows, when all that money came 
pouncing upon me. And my father showed so much 
grief, the day my uncle wrote to him that I was a 
scapegrace, that I would never take holy orders! It 
was his express wish to see me a priest; perhaps it was 
his idea that I would thus atone for the murder of my 
mother. He gave in, however, at last, he called me 


134 


THE DREAM 


to him.— Ah ! to live, to live, how good it is ! To 
live, to love, and to be loved !” 

His healthy and virgin youth vibrated to his cry, 
with which the calm night seemed to shiver. It was 
the passion, the passion of which his mother had died, 
the passion which had impelled him to this first love, 
born of mystery. All his ardor was in it, his beauty, 
his loyalty, his ignorance, his devouring appetite of 
life. 

“ I was like you, I was waiting, and the night you 
showed yourself at the window, I also recognized you. 
— Tell me what were you dreaming of ? Speak to me 
of the days before —” 

But, once more, she closed his lips. 

“ No, let us speak of you, of nothing but you. I 
want no minute of your life to remain hidden — That I 
may hold you, that I may love you wholly !” 

And she never wearied of hearing him speak about 
himself, in an ecstatic joy at knowing him, crushed in 
adoration like the saintly maiden at the feet of Jesus. 
And neither the one nor the other grew tired of repeat¬ 
ing the same things, over and over, how they had 
loved, how they did love each other. The words came 
back, always the same, always new, taking unexpected 
meanings. Their bliss seemed to grow as they went 
deeper into it, as they tasted the music of it on their 
lips. He confessed to her the charm under which she 
had held him with her voice alone, so deeply had he 
felt himself her slave, when listening to the exquisite 
sound. She acknowledged the positive fear he threw 
her into, when his skin, so white, purpled with a flush 
of blood at the least anger. And now they had left 
the vapory banks of the Chevrotte, they had plunged 
into the forest of great elms, each with an arm around 
the waist of the other. 

“ Oh! this garden,” murmured Angelica, inhaling the 
cool scent that fell from the foliage. " For years I 


THE DREAM 135 

have longed to enter it — and here lam with you, 
here I am!” 

She did not ask him where he was leading her, she 
clung lovingly to his arm in the darkness of the cen¬ 
tenarian trunks. 

The ground was soft to the feet, the vaults of leaves 
lifted themselves, high up, like the vaults of a church. 
Not a sound, not a breath, nothing but the throbbing 
of their hearts. 

At last he pushed open the door oi a pavilion, and 
said to her: 

“ Walk in, you are come to my own place.” 

It was here his father had thought fit to lodge him, 
apart, in this retired corner of the park. There was, 
down-stairs, a large parlor; above, a complete apart¬ 
ment. A lamp lighted the vast room on the first 
floor. 

“ You see,” he resumed, with a smile, you are in 
an artisan’s home; this is my work-room.” 

It was a work-room indeed, but it was also the 
caprice of a rich young man who enjoyed the artisan- 
work of painting on glass. He had rediscovered some 
of the ancient processes of the XIII. century; he could 
believe himself to be one of those primitive glass- 
workers, producing masterpieces with the poor means 
of that period. The ancient table sufficed him, coated 
with dissolved chalk, on which he drew his sketches 
in red, and where he cut glass with a hot iron, dis¬ 
daining the more modern diamond point. Just now 
the muffle — a little oven built in accordance with an 
old-time drawing — was in operation; a firing almost 
completed, the repairing of another window of the 
cathedral; and there were also there, in cases, glasses 
of all colors which he had to have made for him, blue, 
yellow, green, red, pale, marbled, smoky, sombre 
iridescent, intense. And the room was hung up with 
admirable stuffs, and the work-shop . disappeared 
beneath a luxury of marvelous furnishing. At the 


136 


THE DREAM 


further end, on an ancient altar which served her as a 
pedestal, stood a great, gilded Virgin, with a smile on 
her purple lips. 

“ And so you work and work! ” repeated Angelica, 
with a childish joy. 

She was much inte rested in the oven, and insisted 
that he should explain to her all his work; how it was 
he was satisfied, after the manner of the ancient masters, 
to use bits of glass colored in the paste, which he simply 
shaded with black; why he preferred the small distinct 
personages, accentuating the gestures and the draperies; 
and his ideas on the art of the glass-worker which had 
so sadly declined since the moderns had begun painring 
on glass and enameling it and drawing more accu¬ 
rately; and his final opinion that a church window 
should be solely a transparent mosaic, the brightest 
colors disposed in the most harmonious order, quite a 
bouquet, delicate, yet resplendent with colors. But, 
at that very moment, how she laughed inwardly at the 
art of the glass-worker! These things had not the 
faintest interest for her, except that they came from 
him, that they filled her thoughts with him, that they 
seemed like the natural surroundings of his being. 

“ Ah! ” said she, “ how happy we will be! You will 
paint; I will embroider.” 

He had again taken her hands, standing in the 
middle of the large room the great luxury of which 
made her feel at home, seeming the natural ground 
where her graces must bloom. And both, for an instant, 
were silent. Then it was she who once more spoke. 

“ So, it is all settled? ” 

“ What? ” asked he, smiling. 

“ Our marriage.” 

He had a moment’s hesitation. His face, so very 
white, suddenly flushed. She grew anxious. 

“ Do I vex you? ” 

But he was already clasping her hands in a grasp 
that took her whole, 


THE DREAM 


137 


“ Indeed it is settled. Enough that you wish a 
thing for me to conquer it in spite of obstacles. I 
have but one purpose now, that of obeying you.” 

Then she was radiant. 

“ We will marry, we will love each other always, we 
will never leave each other, never.” 

She felt no doubts about it, it would accomplish 
itself the very next day, with that ease of the miracles 
in the Legend. The idea of the least hindrance, of the 
least delay, did not even occur to her. Why, since 
they loved each other, should they be longer separated? 
One adores, one marries, and it is all very simple. 
And she felt a great, peaceful joy. 

“ It is decided, give me your hand on it,” she con¬ 
tinued, jokingly. 

“ It is decided. ” 

And as she started, in fear of being surprised by 
the dawn, being also in a hurry to put an end to her 
secret, he wished to bring her back to her gate. 

“ No, no, we would never reach there before daylight. 
I will find my way well enough. Good-bye until to¬ 
morrow. ” 

“ Till to-morrow? ” answered Felicien. 

And he obeyed, contenting himself with watching 
Angelica go, and she ran through the somber elms, she 
ran along the Chevrotte bathed in light. Already she 
had passed the park gate, then darted through the high 
grass of the Clos-Marie. As she was running she 
thought she could never wait till sunrise, that she 
must knock at the Huberts’ room, to waken them 
up and tell them everything at once. It was an over¬ 
flow of happiness, a reaction of repentant sincerity; 
she felt herself guilty for keeping hidden five minutes 
longer this secret that she had closeted so long. She 
entered the garden, shut the door behind her.. 

And there Angelica caught sight of Hubertine lean¬ 
ing against the cathedral wall, awaiting her in the dark, 
seated on a stone bench, which a thin clump of lilacs 


THE DREAM 


138 

surrounded. Awakened, warned by a mental pang, 
the mother had gone up-stairs, and understood all on 
finding the doors wide open. And cruelly anxious, 
not knowing where to go, fearing to make matters 
worse, she sat there waiting. 

At once Angelica threw herself at her neck, without 
any thrill of confusion, her heart bounding with glee, 
laughing merrily at having nothing more to hide. 

“ Ah! mother, it is done! We are going to be mar¬ 
ried, I am so happy!” 

Before answering, Hubertine looked her through 
and through. But her fears fell before that budding 
maidenhood, those limpid eyes, those pure lips. 
And there remained to her nothing but intense 
grief; tears ran down her cheeks. 

“ My poor child,” murmured she, as on the evening 
before in the church. 

Angelica, surprised to see her thus troubled — she, 
so evenly balanced, who never wept — exclaimed: 

“ Why, what’s the matter, mother? you are grieving 

_it is true I have done wrong, I have had a secret 

from you. But if you knew how heavy it weighed on 
me! At first, one says nothing, then one dares not 
speak — O ! do forgive me.” 

She had seated herself near her, and one loving arm 
was thrown round her waist. The old seat seemed to 
sink for shelter into the mossy corner of the cathedral. 
Above their heads the lilacs threw their shadow; and 
quite close also grew the wild brier the young girl had 
planted long ago, anxious to see it bear roses; but 
neglected for some time, it already showed signs of 
decay, as if returning to its wild state. 

" Mother, I am going to tell you everything here! 
in your ear!” 

And, in a low voice, she began telling her, in a cease* 
less flow of words, of their love-making, living the 
least details over again, busying herself at making them 
sweet and clear. She omitted nothing, ransacked her 


THE DREAM 


139 


memory as though for a confession. Nor was she made 
ill at ease by it, the flush of passion burning her cheeks, 
a flame of pride lighting her eyes, but she did not raise 
her voice, whispering in her ardent way. 

Hubertine at last interrupted her, she also speaking 
low. 

“ There, there, now you are at it again! In spite of 
your correcting yourself, you are carried away every 
time, as by a great whirlwind — Ah! you proud girl! 
ah! you impassioned one! you are still the same little 
girl who refused to scrub the kitchen, who kissed her 
own hands.” 

Angelica could not help laughing. 

" No, do not laugh; soon you will not have enough 
tears to weep — This marriage will never be, my poor 
child.” 

At that her gayety burst forth, sonorous, pro¬ 
longed. 

“ Mother, mother, what are you saying? Is it to 
tease me or to punish me? — But only see, it is all so 
simple! This evening he will speak of it to his father. 
To-morrow he will come and arrange everything with 
you. ” 

She actually believed it would all be so. Hubertine 
felt that she had to show herself relentless. What! a 
little embroideress, without money, without even a 
name, to marry Felicien d’Hautecoeur! A young man, 
rich to fifty millions! The last descendant of one of 
the oldest families of France! 

But at each new obstacle, Angelica answered quietly! 

“ Why not?” 

But it would be an unheard-of scandal, a marriage out¬ 
side the pale of possible happiness. Everything would 
rise up to prevent it. Did she, then, intend to battle 
against everything? 

“ Why not? ” 

Did she not know how proud Monseigneur was of 




140 


THE DREAM 


his name, how severe against such adventurous love 
affairs? Could she ever hope to soften him? 

“ Why not? ” 

And, steadfast in her faith: 

“ It is strange, mother, how bad you think the world to 
be! When I tell you that things will turn out all right! 
Two months ago, you scolded me, you laughed at me, 
do you remember, and yet I was right, all that I fore¬ 
told has come to pass.” 

“ But, wretched girl, wait for the end! ” 

And then, indeed, Hubertine felt distressed, tortured 
by remorse at having allowed Angelica to remain ig¬ 
norant of all. She wished she could teach her in an 
hour, the hard lessons of reality, enlighten her as to 
the cruelties, the abominations of the world; but then 
she was seized with an awkward dumbness, not finding 
the necessary word. How sad it would be if, one day, 
she would have to accuse herself of causing the ruin of 
this child by bringing her up as a recluse, in the con¬ 
tinued falseness of a dream! 

“ Come, my darling, you surely would not marry 
this man in spite of us all, in spite of his father.” 

Angelica, suddenly sobered, looked her in the face; 
then, in a grave tone: 

“ Why not? I love him, and he loves me.” 

With her two arms the mother took her again, draw¬ 
ing her once more close to herself; and the girl also 
looked at her, still without speaking, shuddering. The 
veiled moon had disappeared behind the cathedral, a 
floating vapor was slightly flushing the sky, heralding 
the approach of day. Both were flooded in this morn¬ 
ing purity, in this great, cool silence that only the wak¬ 
ing birds troubled with their little cries. 

“ Oh! my child; only duty and obedience make hap¬ 
piness. One suffers all one’s life from one hour of 
passion and pride. If you wish to be happy, submit 
yourself, renounce, disappear-” 

But she felt her rebelling in her embrace; and what 



THE DREAM 


141 

she had never told her, what she still hesitated to tell 
her, escaped from her lips. 

“ Listen; you think we are happy, your father and 
I. We would be, if a torment had not marred our 
life-” 

She spoke still lower; she told her, with trembling 
breath, their story; the marriage in spite of her mother; 
the death of the child; their futile desire of having 
another; their life under the bane of that fault. Still 
they adored each other; they had lived by their work, 
without wants, but they were unhappy all the same, 
and they would surely have come to quarrels, to a life 
of strife, perhaps to a violent separation, had it not 
been for their efforts, his goodness, her sense- 

“Reflect, my child; put nothing in your life from 
which you may suffer later on. Be humble, obey, 
silence the blood of your heart-” 

Struggling still, Angelica listened to her, very pale, 
keeping back her tears. 

“ Mother, you hurt me. — I love him, and he loves 
me. ” 

And her tears poured forth. She was overcome by 
her confidence, softened even, but with a bewildered 
look in her eyes, as though wounded by this glimpse 
at a small corner of the truth of life. But she did not 
give in. She would so willingly have died of her 
love! 

Then Hubertine made up her mind. 

“ x did not want to cause you so much pain at one 
time, my darling. But you must know. Last night, 
when you had gone up-stairs, I questioned the abbe 
Cornille; I learned why Monseigneur, who had resisted 
for so long, thought it wise to call his son to Beaumont. 
One of his great griefs was the impetuosity of the 
young man, the haste he showed to live outside of all 
rules. After having sadly renounced making a priest 
of him, Monseigneur no longer hoped to even launch 
him in some occupation suitable to his rank and for- 




142 


THE DREAM 


tune. He would never be anything but an enthusiast; 
a wild one, an artist— He was startled at seeing 
himself again in the boy, in his folly of passion, for 
which he had so severely suffered—. And then it was 
that, fearing some insane movement of the young heart, 
he made him come here, to marry at once." 

“ Well? ” asked Angelica, not understanding yet. 

“ A marriage was projected even before his arrival, 
and all seems settled to-day; the abbe Cornille form¬ 
ally told me that the heir was to marry Mademoiselle 
Claire de Voincourt. You know the mansion of the 
Voincourts, over there, near the See-house. They are 
very intimate with Monseigneur. On both sides, noth¬ 
ing better could be wished, either as to name or money. 
The abbe very much approves this union." 

But the young girl no longer listened to these fair 
reasons of social convenience. An image had suddenly 
risen before her eyes — that of Claire. She once more 
saw her passing, as she had often noticed her in the 
walks of her park, in winter, as she had seen her also 
in the cathedral on feast-days; a tall, dark young lady, 
of her own age, very beautiful, of a more startling 
beauty than her own, with a carriage of royal distinc¬ 
tion. She was said to be very kind and good, in spite 
of her air of distant coldness. 

“ That tall young lady, so beautiful, so rich — he is 
going to marry her-” 

She murmured this as in a dream. Then she felt a 
heart-rending anguish, and she cried out: 

“ He lied, then! He never told me so." 

And the remembrance came back to her of Felicien’s 
slight hesitation, of the flush of blood that rushed to 
his cheeks when she had spoken to him of marriage. 
The shock was so cruel that her colorless face slipped 
from Hubertine’s shoulder. 

“ My darling, my dearest darling—it is very hard, 
I know; but if you delayed, it would be still harder. 
Rather draw out at once the knife from the wound. 


THE DREAM 


143 


Repeat to yourself, at each pang of pain, that never 
will Monseigneur — the terrible Jean XII., of whom 
the world still remembers the intractable pride — give 
his son, the last of his race, to a little embroideress, 
picked up in a door-way, adopted by poor people such 
as we are.” 

In her faintness, Angelica heard this, no longer re¬ 
belling. What had she felt passing over her face? A 
cold breath, come from far off, from down the roofs, 
froze her blood. Was this that misery of the world, 
that desolate reality of which she had been told, as un¬ 
ruly children are told of the wolf ? And the pain stuck 
to her, merely from her being brushed by it. But she 
already excused Felicien. He had not lied, he had re¬ 
mained silent, that is all. If his father really wished 
him to marry this young girl, he has doubtless refused. 
Perhaps he did not dare to enter yet into the struggle; 
and, since he had said nothing, perhaps it was that he 
had just then made up his mind to it. Even under this 
first blow, pale, touched by the rude finger of life, she 
still remained the ever-believing one, she kept true 
faith in her dream. Those things would even happen, 
all in good time, only her pride was broken down, she 
sank again to the humility of grace. 

“ Mother, it is true, I have sinned; but I will sin no 
more.— I promise you not to rebel, to be all that 
heaven wishes me to be. 

It was grace itself speaking, victory rested with the 
surroundings in which she had grown up, with the 
raising up she had been given there. Why should she 
have doubted of the morrow, since, up to that day 
all that had surrounded her had shown itself so gener¬ 
ous toward her, and so tender ? She wished to treas¬ 
ure the wisdom of Catherine, the modesty of Elizabeth, 
the chastity of Agnes, strengthened by the support of 
the saints, certain that they alone could help her to 
conquer. Would not her old friends, the cathedral, 
the Clos-Marie, and the Chevrotte, the cool little house 


144 


THE DREAM 


of the Huberts, the Huberts themselves, all that had 
so loved her, defend her now, without her having to 
act, simply obedient and pure ? 

“ Then, you promise me that you will never do any¬ 
thing against our wish, especially against the will of 
Monseigneur ? ” 

“ Yes, mother, I promise.” 

“ You promise me never to see this young man 
again, and to think no more of this folly of marrying 
him ? ” 

At that, her heart failed her, a final rebellion almost 
roused her to appeal for her love. But soon she bent 
her head, fully conquered. 

“ I promise to do nothing to see him again and to 
make him make marry me.” 

Hubertine, deeply moved, clasped her desperately 
in her arms, in gratitude for her obedience. Ah! 
what a misery! to wish all that is kind and to cause 
suffering to those one loves! She felt all broken 
down and weak, but rose surprised at the growing day. 
The little cries of the birds had increased, though none 
were yet visible. In the sky, the clouds scattered like 
gauzes, in the limpid, deepening blue of the air. 

And Angelica, her eyes falling absently on her sweet- 
brier, at last noticed it, with its sickly flowers. And 
laughing sadly: 

“ You are right, mother,” she said “ it is far from 
bearing roses.” 


CHAPTER X. 

The next morning, at seven o’clock as usual, Angel¬ 
ica was sitting at her task, and the days followed one 
another, and each morning she set herself to work, 
very calm, at the chasuble which she had left the night 



THE DREAM 


145 


before. Nothing seemed changed; she kept strictly 
to her word, cloistered herself, not attempting to see 
Felicien again. It did not even seem to sadden her; 
she kept her gay look of youthfulness, smiling at 
Hubertine when she caught the latter, in her anxious 
astonishment, looking at her with surprised eyes. 

However, in that determined silence, she was dream¬ 
ing only of him the whole day long. Her hopes 
remained unconquered, she was so sure that those 
things would come to pass in spite of all. And it was 
this very certainty that gave her that grand air of cour¬ 
age, so erect and so proud. 

Hubert, at time, scolded her. 

“ You work too much; you seem to me rather pale. 
Do you, at least, sleep well? ” 

“ Oh, father, like a log! I have never been better.” 

But Hubertine, in her turn, became anxious, spoke 
of taking recreation. 

“ If you like, we will lock the doors, and we will, the 
three of us, take a journey to Paris.” 

“ Oh what an idea! And how are the orders to be 
filled, mother? — Why, I tell you that my health de¬ 
pends on hard work! ” 

In her heart Angelica simply awaited a miracle, 
some manifestation of the invisible, which would give 
her to Felicien. Even had she not promised to remain 
passive, what was the use of acting, since the 
“ beyond” was still at work for her? Likewise, in her 
voluntary inertia, though feigning indifference, she 
kept continually listening, alert to the voices, to the 
murmuring around her, to the little familiar noises of 
the surroundings wherein she lived, and from which 
she knew that help was coming to her. Something 
must surely happen. So, as she leaned over her em¬ 
broidery-frame, the window open, she did not lose a 
rustle of the trees, not a murmur of the Chevrotte. 
The least sighs of the cathedral reached her, increased 
ten-fold by the intensity of her attention; she heard 


14-6 


THE DREAM 


the very slippers of the beadle as he went about, put¬ 
ting out the tapers. Once more, as of old, she 
divined at her side the fluttering of mysterious wings; 
she knew herself to be assisted by the unknown; and 
she felt an impulse to turn suddenly, thinking that a 
shadow had whispered in her ear the way to victory. 
But the days passed, and still nothing came. 

At night not to be untrue to her promise, Angelica 
at first avoided going to the balcony, in the fear of 
joining Felicien, if she noticed him below. She waited, 
at the back of her room. Then, as the very leaves 
were motionless, asleep, she ventured, she began once 
more to interrogate the darkness. Whence was the 
miracle about to develop itself? Doubtless, from the 
garden of the See-house, a flaming hand would beacon 
her to come. Perhaps from the cathedral, where the 
organs would peal and call her to the altar. Nothing 
could have surprised her, neither the doves of the 
Legend bringing words of benediction, nor the inter¬ 
vention of the Saints entering through the walls, 
announcing that Monseigneur wished to see her. 
There was but one thing that astonished her, that the 
prodigy should declare itself so tardily. As did the 
days, so did the nights succeed to the nights, and 
nothing appeared, nothing, nothing—*— 

After the second week, what astonished Angelica 
still more, was not to have seen Felicien again. She 
had certainly bound herself to make no attempt to 
approach him; but, without saying so, she counted 
upon his doing everything to approach her; and the 
Clos-Marie remained empty. He no longer even 
crossed the wild grasses. Not once in two weeks, in 
the hours of night, had she perceived his shadow. It 
did not shake her faith; if he did not come, it was 
because he was busy bringing about their happiness. 
Nevertheless, her surprise grew, mingled with a 
beginning of anxiety. 

One evening, the dinner had been especially sad at 



THE DREAM 


147 


the embroiderer’s, and, as Hubert had gone out under 
pretext of some important errand, Hubertine remained 
alone with Angelica, in the kitchen. Long she looked 
at her, with moistened eyes, moved at such admirable 
courage. For a fortnight they had not spoken of the 
things with which their hearts were overflowing; she 
was touched by this strength and this loyalty in keep¬ 
ing a vow. A sudden flow of tenderness made her 
open her arms, and, the young girl throwing her¬ 
self on her breast, they clasped each other in a mute 
embrace. 

Then, when Hubertine was able to speak: 

“ Ah! my poor child, I waited to be alone with you. 
You must know— it is all over, all over.” 

Bewildered, Angelica had drawn herself up, crying 
out: 

“ Felicien is dead!” 

“ No, no.” 

“ If he does not come, it is because he is dead!” 

And Hubertine had to explain how, on the day after 
the procession, she had seen him, to exact likewise 
from him the promise to appear no more without the 
permission of Monseigneur. It was a final dismissal, 
for she knew the marriage to be impossible. She had 
overwhelmed him with shame and grief, showing him 
the wickedness of his actions; this poor, confiding, 
ignorant girl he was so cruelly compromising though 
unable to marry her; and he had cried out, he also, that 
he would die of despair at not seeing her again, but be 
disloyal to her never. That very evening he confessed 
all to his father. 

“ And now,” said Hubertine, “ as you show so 
much courage, I may speak to you without reserve — 
Ah! if you knew, darling, how I pity you and how 
I admire you since I feel that you are so proud, so 
brave, keeping silent, even showing yourself merry 
when your heart is bursting — but you still need cour¬ 
age, a great deal of courage, my darling. —I met the 


THE DREAM 


148 

Abbe Cornille this afternoon. All is over—Mon¬ 
seigneur will not.” 

She was expecting an outburst of tears, and was 
astonished to see her, very pale, sit down again with 
a tranquil air. The old oaken table had just been 
cleared, a lamp lighted the antique living-room, the 
peace of which was broken only by the singing of the 
Kettle. 

“ Mother, nothing is over — Tell me all, I have a 
right to be informed, have I not, since these are my 
affairs? ” 

And she listened attentively to what Hubertine 
thought she could tell her of the news received from 
the abbe, omitting certain details, persisting to shelter 
this ignorant one from the cruelty of life. 

Since he had recalled his son. Monseigneur lived in 
a constant perturbation. 

After he had removed him from his presence on the 
day after his wife’s death, and had refused, for twenty 
years, to see him again, here stood under his roof this 
boy, in the power and glory of youth, a living portrait 
of her whom he mourned, having her soul, the blonde 
grace of her beauty. This long exile, this aversion 
for the child who had cost him the mother, were also 
acts of prudence; and now, at this hour, he regretted 
having altered his determination. Neither age, nor 
twenty years of prayers, nor God dwelling in him, 
nothing had killed the former man. And that this son 
of his flesh, this part and parcel of the worshiped 
woman, should thus stand up before him with the 
laughter of her blue eyes, was sufficient to make his 
heart beat to bursting, as if the dead had come to life 
again. He struck his breast with his fists, he sobbed 
in vain penitence, he cried out, in his silent oratory, 
that priesthood should be forbidden to those who have 
been married, to those who have entered over in the 
bondage of the flesh. 

The good abb£ Cornille had spoken of all this to 


THE DREAM 


149 


Hubertine, in a low voice and with trembling hands. 
Mysterious rumors were abroad; it was whispered that 
Monseigneur shut himself in at fall at night, and there 
were nights of struggle, of tears, of moanings, whose 
violence, although muffled by draperies, frightened the 
See-house people. He thought he had forgotten, had 
conquered passion, but it came all back, with the 
onrush of a tempest, in the terrible man that he was 
before; the man of adventure, the descendant of this 
long race of legendary captains. Each evening, on his 
knees, his skin rasped by the hair cloth, he strove to 
dispel the phantom of the lamented woman, he evoked 
from her coffin the dust that she must now be. But it 
was living that she arose, in the delicious freshness of 
a flower, such as he had loved her, quite young, with 
the frenzied adoration of a man in his prime. The 
torture began again, bleeding as on the day of her 
death; he mourned her, he longed for her with the 
same revolt against that merciless God who had taken 
her away from him, and not till the small hours did 
he recover his balance, all worn out, in a deep con¬ 
tempt of himself and disgust at the world. Ah! that 
passion, that evil beast that he so desperately wished 
to crush, so as to return to the humble peace of divine 
love! % 

Monseigneur, when out of his room, at once resumed 
his severe attitude, his calm and haughty face scarcely 
blanched by a trace of paleness. The morning when 
Felicien had confessed all, he had listened without a 
word, mastering himself with such an effort'that not a 
fiber of his flesh trembled. He looked at him, his 
heart overcome at seeing one so young, so beautiful, 
so ardent, at seeing himself again in that folly of love. 
It was no longer aversion, it was an absolute will that 
came uppermost in the father’s soul, the will to tear the 
youth away from the pain from which he himself suf¬ 
fered so much. He would kill the passion in his son, 
as he wished to kill it in himself. Tips romantic story 



150 


THE DREAM 


completed his anguish. What! A poor girl, a girl with¬ 
out a name, a little embroideress perceived under a ray 
of moonlight, transfigured into a slender virgin of the 
Legend, worshiped with a mad love in a dream! And so 
he simply answered one word: “Never!” Felicien had 
thrown himself at his knees, imploring him, pleading his 
cause, that of Angelica, in a thrill of respect and terror. 
Till then he had never approached his father without 
trembling, and now he appealed to him vehemently not 
to oppose his happiness, without even yet daring to lift 
his eyes up to his holy person. In a submissive voice, 
he offered to disappear, to take his wife so far that they 
would never be seen again, to give to the church his 
great fortune. He wished only to be loved and to love, 
unknown. A shiver, then, had shaken Monseigneur. 
His word was pledged to the Voincourts; never would 
he break it. And Felicien, exhausted, feeling himself 
seized by rage, had gone away, fearing the flush of 
blood which empurpled his cheeks, and which 
urged him to the sacrilege of an open revolt. 

“ My child,” concluded Hubertine, “ you see well 
that you must no longer think of this young man, for 
you surely do not intend to act against the will of 
Monseigneur. I foresaw all that. But I prefer that 
facts should speak, showing that no obstacles come 
from me.” 

Angelica had listened with her tranquil air, her 
hands dropped and clasped upon her knees. Her eye¬ 
lids scarcely quivered, from time to time; her fixed 
looks saw the scene, Felicien at the feet of Monseigneur, 
speaking of her, in an overflowing of tenderness. She 
did not answer at once; she continued to think it all 
over in the dead peace of the kitchen, where the slight 
singing of the kettle had just died away. She lowered 
her lids, she looked at her hands which the light of the 
lamp turned to lovely tinted ivory. Then, while an 
invincible smile of confidence rose again to her lips, 
she said simply: 


THE DREAM 


151 

“ If Monseigneur refuses, it is because he waits to 
know me. ” 

That night Angelica scarcely slept. The idea that 
a sight of her would decide Monseigneur haunted her. 
There was in this no personal woman’s vanity. She 
felt love to be almighty, she loved Felicien so strongly 
that it could not fail to make itself visible, and the 
father could not insist in causing their misery. Twenty 
times, in her wide bed, she tossed and tossed, repeating 
these things. Monseigneur passed before her closed 
eyes, in his violet robes. Perhaps it was in him, and 
by him, that the expected miracle would produce itself. 
Outside, the warm night slept on, she bent an ear to 
listen to the voices, to try to overhear what the trees, 
the Chevrotte, the cathedral, the very room, peopled 
with friendly shadows, were counseling her. But only 
a buzzing, nothing distinct reached her. An impatience 
came to her from such too tardy assurance. And, as 
sleep overpowered her, she caught herself saying : 

“ To-morrow I will speak to Monseigneur. ” 

When she awoke the undertaking seemed even more 
simple and necessary. Hers was an ingenuous and 
brave passion,of great purity, proud in its valiance. 

She knew that each Saturday, toward five in the 
evening, Monseigneur went to kneel in the Hautecceur 
chapel, where he loved to pray alone, filled with the 
past of his race and of himself, seeking a solitude which 
was respected by his entire clergy. And it just hap¬ 
pened to be Saturday. She quickly made up her 
mind. At the See-house perhaps they would not 
have received her; moreover, there was always some¬ 
body there, she would have felt all confused. Whereas, 
it was so convenient to wait in the chapel and to name 
herself to Monseigneur as soon as he should appear. 
That day she embroidered with her usual application 
and serenity; she felt no especial excitement, resolved 
as she was in her determination, certain of acting 
well. Then, at four o’clock, she spoke of going to old 


152 


THE DREAM 


mother Gabet; she left the house, dressed as for her 
every-day shopping, her head covered merely with a 
garden hat tied loosely. As she went out she turned 
at once to the left, and pushed one of the padded wings 
of the door of St. Agnes, which closed behind her 
with a muffled sound 

The church was empty; only a confessional in the 
chapel of St. Joseph was still occupied by a penitent, 
whose black gown could be faintly noticed, and Angelica, 
very calm till then, began to tremble on entering this 
sacred and cold solitude, where the little noise of her 
steps seemed to resound fearfully. Why was her heart 
contracting itself so? She had thought herself so 
strong, she had passed so tranquil a day in the persua¬ 
sion of her right to wish to be happy! And now she 
no longer knew anything; she became pale as a culprit! 
In her anguish she hastened as far as the Hautecoeur 
chapel, where she was obliged to hold to the gate for 
support. 

This chapel was one of the most remote, one of the 
most sombre in the antique Romanesque apsis. Like 
a cave carved in the stone, narrow and nude, with the 
simple ribs of its low vaults, it was lighted only by the 
stained window, the legend of St. George, where the 
red panes and the blue panes dominating, gave a lilac 
glare, as of a twilight. The altar, in black and white 
marble, without ornament, with its crucifix, and its 
pair of chandeliers, resembled a sepulcher. And the 
rest of the walls were covered with memorial tablets, 
quite a setting, from top to bottom, of stones gnawed 
by age, where inscriptions in deep letters appeared 
still legible. 

Oppressed, Angelica waited, immovable. A beadle 
passed, who did not even see her, so close she stood 
against the inside of the gate. She faintly noticed the 
black gown of the penitent in the confessional. Her 
eyes became accustomed to the semi-light, they fixed 


THE DREAM I 53 

themselves mechanically upon the inscriptions, the 
characters of which she at last deciphered. 

Names struck her, awakened in her the legends of 
the Chateau d’Hautecceur, Jean V. le Grand, Raoul 
III., Herve VII. Her eyes met with two other names, 
those of Laurette and Balbine, which moved her to 
tears in her distress. They were those of the blessed 
Dead; Laurette fallen from a moonbeam while going to 
meet her lover, Balbine paralyzed by joy at the return 
of her husband, whom she thought killed in war — 
both coming back at night, encircling the castle with 
the white flight of their immense robes. Had she not 
seen them, the day of her visit to the ruins, floating 
above the towers, amid the ashy paleness of the twi¬ 
light ? Ah ! how willingly would she have died like 
them, at sixteen, in the supreme happiness of her 
realized dream ! 

A noise reverberated under the vaults, startled her. 

It was the priest, who was leaving the confessional 
of the chapel of St. Joseph, and was closing the door 
behind him. She was surprised at not finding there 
the penitent, who had already disappeared. Then, 
when the priest, in his turn, had gone away through 
the vestry, she felt herself absolutely alone in the vast 
solitude of the church. At the deep, rumbling noise 
from the old confessional creaking on its hinges, she 
had thought it was Monseigneur. She had waited for 
him almost half an hour, all unconscious of the time, 
as if her emotion had carried away the minutes. 

But a new name arrested her eyes, Felicien III., 
who had gone to Palestine, a taper in his hand, to 
accomplish the vow of Philippe -le Bel. And her 
heart beat; she saw the young head of Felicien VII. 
arise, the descendant of them all, the blonde lord she 
worshiped, by whom she knew herself worshiped. 
And she felt as in a trance of pride and fear. Was it 
possible that she was there for the accomplishment of 
the prodigy? Before her there was a marble slab, 


154 


THE DREAM 


only a century old, on which she read fluently, in black 
letters: “ Norbert, Louis, Ogier, Marquis d’Haute- 
cceur, Prince de Mirande et de Rouvres, comte de 
Ferrieres, de Montegu, de Saint-Marc, et aussi de 
Villemareuil, Baron de Combeville, chevalier des 
quatre ordres du roi, lieutenant de ses armees, gouver- 
neur de Normandie, pourvu de la charge de capitaine 
general de la venerie et de l’equipage du sanglier.” 
These were the lofty titles of the grandfather of Feli- 
cien — and she had come, she so simple, in her work- 
ing-girl’s dress, her fingers all pricked by needle-marks, 
to marry the grandson of this dead grandee-. 

There was a slight noise; scarcely a rustle on the 
flag-stones. She turned round and saw Monseigneur 
— and was all startled by this silent approach, without 
the thunder-clap she half expected. He had come into 
the chapel, very tall, very noble-looking, clad in violet, 
with his pale face and strongly marked nose, with his 
superb eyes, still young. At first he did not notice 
her against that black gate. Then, as he bowed toward 
the altar, he found her before him at his feet. 

Her limbs had given way, and, humbled with respect 
and fright, Angelica had fallen on both knees. He 
appeared to her like God the Father, awe-inspiring in 
his absolute mastery of her destiny. But she had a 
courageous heart; so she spoke at once. 

“ Ah, Monseigneur, I have come-” 

He had drawn himself up. He vaguely remembered 
her. She was the young girl he had noticed at the 
window the day of the procession, and had remarked 
again in the church, standing on a chair — that same 
little embroideress his son seemed so fond of. He said 
not a word, he made not a gesture. He waited, 
haughty, rigid. 

“ Oh! Monseigneur, I have come, so that you may 
see me —You have refused, but you did not know me. 
And here I am, look at me, before you repulse me 
again — I a m she who loves and is loved. I am noth- 




THE DREAM 


155 


ing outside of this love, nothing but a poor foundling, 
picked up at the door of this church — You see me at 
your feet, and how small, how feeble and humble I am. 
It will be easy for you to set me aside if I am in your 
way. You have only to lift a finger to destroy me — 
But. what tears! One ought to know what it is to 
suffer. Then, one is merciful. I wished, in my turn, 
to defend my cause, Monseigneur, but I am an igno¬ 
rant child, I know only that I love and am loved. Is 
not that sufficient? To love, to love, and to speak of 
it!” 

And thus she went on in broken and sobbing phrases, 
unbosoming herself wholly, in an impulse of candor, 
of growing passion. It was love confessing itself. 
She was thus bold because she was so chaste. Little 
by little she had raised her head. 

“ We love each other, Monseigneur. He doubtless 
has explained to you how this thing came to be. I 
often question myself about it, without being able to 
answer. We love each other, and, if it is a crime, par¬ 
don it, for it came from afar, from the very trees and 
stones which surrounded us. When I knew that I 
loved him, it was too late not to love him.— Now, is 
it possible to wish for that? You can keep him at 
home, marry him to another, but you will never make 
him cease to love me. He will die without me, as I 
shall without him. When he is not there, at mytside, 
I feel that he is still there, that we are not an instant 
separated one from the other, for one bears away with 
him the heart of the other. I have but to close my eyes, 
I see him again, he is within me. Not a drop of our 
blood but is mingled thus, for life.— And would you 
tear us away from this union? Monseigneur, this is 
divine: do not prevent our loving each other—” 

He looked at her, so fresh, so simple, sweet as a 
bouquet in her little working-girl’s dress.. He listened 
while she recited the hymn of her love, in a voice the 
touching charm of which grew gradually firmer and 



THE DREAM 


156 

stronger. The garden-hat had slipped to her shoul¬ 
ders, her light-hued hair threw a nimbus of fine gold 
around her face, and she appeared to him like one of 
those legendary virgins of the ancient missals, with 
something frail, primitive, in her idealized passion, 
passionately pure. 

“ Be kind, Monseigneur. You are the master, order 
that we be happy.” 

She implored, she bent her brow anew, seeing him 
so cold, still without a word, without a gesture. Ah! 
this bewildered child at his feet, this odor of youth 
which exhaled from her neck lowered before him! 
Here he found again the little blonde ringlets, so madly 
kissed in days gone by. Again rose before him she, 
whose memory tortured him after twenty years of pen¬ 
itence, with her perfumed youthfulness, her neck with 
the pride and grace of the lily. She was born anew, 
it was she who was sobbing before him, beggingin her 
ardent way that her passion be tenderly treated. 

The tears had come, Angelica continued, however, 
wishing to say all. 

“ And, Monseigneur, it is not only Felicien I love; 
I love also the greatness of his name, the dazzle of his 
royal fortune. Yes, I know that, being nothing, 
having nothing, I seem to want him for his money; 
but it is true, it is also for his money I want him — I 
must tell you that, since you are to know me — 
ah! to become rich through him, with him, to live in 
the softness and splendor of luxury, to owe him all my 
joys, to be free, in our love, to leave no more tears, 
no more misery around! Since he loves me, I see 
myself clothed in brocade, as in the ancient times; I 
have around my neck, on my wrists, rivers of gems 
and pearls, I have horses, coaches, immense woods 
where I roam on foot, followed by pages — I never 
think of him without dreaming that dream over again; 
and I tell myself that it must be that he has fulfilled 
my desire to be queen. Monseigneur, is it then 


THE DREAM 


157 


wicked to love him more because he will fulfill all my 
childish wishes, the miraculous showers of gold of the 
fairy-tales? ” 

She stood there before him, proud, erect, with her 
grand, charming princess, mien, in her exquisite sim¬ 
plicity. And she was even more like the other one, 
with the same flowery delicacy, the same tender tears 
clear as smiles. An intoxication emanated from her, 
the warm shiver of which he felt rise to his face, the 
same shiver of memory which cast him, at night, sob¬ 
bing on his praying-stool, troubling with his plaints 
the religious silence of the See-house. Until three 
o’clock in the morning, the day before, he had again 
struggled, and this love adventure, this troubled 
passion, irritated to the quick his incurable wound. 
But behind his impassiveness nothing appeared to 
betray this combat to overcome the throbbing of his 
heart. If he lost his blood, drop by drop, no one saw 
it flow; it only made him paler and more silent. 

“ I put myself in your hands, Monseigneur. Have 
pity, decide my fate—” 

And still he did not speak. He terrified her, as 
though he had grown before her in a redoubtable 
majesty. The deserted cathedral, with its already 
gloomy side-aisles, its high vaults, where the day was 
dying away, widened, as it were, the anguish of sus¬ 
pense. In the chapel, the memorial tablets could not 
even be distinguished; buthe remained, with his violet 
cassock, deepened now to black, with his long, pale 
face, which alone seemed to have kept alight. She 
saw his eyes shine, fastening themselves upon her with 
a growing brilliancy. Was it anger that was thus 
lighting them? 

“ Monseigneur, if I had not come, I would have 
reproached myself forever with having caused the 
unhappiness of us both, through my want of courage. 
Tell me, I beseech you, tell me that I was right, that 
you consent—” 


158 


THE DREAM 


What was the use of arguing with this child? He 
had given his son the reasons for his refusal; that was 
sufficient. If he did not speak, it was because he 
had nothing to say. She understood it, doubtless, 
for she tried to raise herself up to his hands to kiss 
them, but he drew them violently back; and she was 
frightened at his palid face empurpled with a sudden 
flush of blood. 

At last he opened his lips and said but a single word, 
the word he had flung to his son. 

“ Never! ” 

And, without even attending to his evening devotions 
he departed. Soon his grave steps were lost behind the 
pillars of the apsis. 

h alien on the stones, Angelica wept long, with 
heavy sobs, in the great empty peace of the church. 


CHAPTER XI. 

That night, in the kitchen, on leaving the table, An¬ 
gelica confessed all to the Huberts, told of the step she 
had taken in regard to the bishop, and of his refusal. 
She was very pale, but very calm. 

Hubert was quite upset. What! His dear child 
was already to suffer! She, too, was stricken to the 
heart! It filled his eyes with tears, in this kinship of 
passion, this fever of the beyond, which carried them 
so easily away, together, at the least breath. 

“ Oh! my poor darling,why did you not consult me? 
I would have gone with you, perhaps I could have 
moved Monseigneur.” 

By a look, Hubertine hushed him. He was really 
unreasonable. Was it not better to seize the occasion 
and bury forever this impossible thought of marriage? 
She took the young girl in her arms, tenderly kissing 
her forehead. 



THE DREAM 


159 


“ So, it is finished, my sweet one, quite finished ?” 

Angelica, at first, did not seem to understand. Then 
the words came to her as from afar. She looked 
fixedly before her, as though she was interrogating 
vacancy, and then replied: 

“ Doubtless, mother.” 

Indeed, the next day, she sat down at her frame and 
she embroidered, quite as usual. Her former life 
went on, she appeared to be free from all suffering. 
No allusion, moreover, not a look toward the window, 
scarcely a trace of pallor. The sacrifice seemed ac¬ 
complished. 

Hubert himself believed it to be so, and gave in to 
the wisdom of Hubertine. He studied how to keep 
Felicien away; for the young man, not yet daring to 
rebel against his father, was growing restless, no 
longer holding to the promise he had made, to wait 
without seeing Angelica again. He wrote to her, but 
the letters were intercepted. He presented himself to 
the door one morning, but Hubert it was who received 
him. The explanation distressed the one as much as 
the other, so deeply did the young man appear to 
suffer when the embroiderer told him the convalescent 
calm of his daughter, begging him to be loyal, to dis¬ 
appear, not to throw her anew into the fearful trouble 
of the last few weeks. Felicien once more bound him¬ 
self to patience; but he violently refused to give back 
her pledged word; he still hoped to convince his 
father. He would wait, he would leave matters as 
they were with the Voincourts, at whose house he 
dined twice a week, so as to avoid any open act of 
rebellion. But before leaving he besought Hubert to 
explain to Angelica why he consented to the tor¬ 
ment of not seeing her; that he thought only of her, 
that all of his acts had no other aim than to win her. 

Hubertine, when her husband narrated to her this 
interview, grew anxious and grave. Then, after a 
silence: 


i6o 


THE DREAM 


“ Will you repeat to the child what he has asked you 
to say? ” 

“ I ought to do so. ” 

She looked fixedly at him, then said: 

“ Act according to your conscience. Only, he is 
deluding himself; he will eventually bow to the verdict 
of his father, and it will be our poor, dear little daughter 
who will die of it. ” 

Then Hubert, overcome, filled with anguish, hesi¬ 
tated, and finally resigned himself to say nothing. 
Moreover, each day he reassured himself a little, when 
his wife pointed out to him the quiet attitude of 
Angelica. 

“ You see well that the wound is closing. She for¬ 
gets.” 

She did not forget, she was waiting, she also — 
simply waiting. All human hope dead, she returned 
to her faith in the prodigy to come. Surely one would 
produce itself, if God wished her to be happy; she had 
but to abandon herself in his hands. She believed to 
have brought upon her this new trial by her having 
attempted to force his will, in importuning Monseign¬ 
eur. Without divine grace, every creature is power¬ 
less, incapable of victory. Her need of grace brought 
her back to humility, to the sole hope of succor from 
the invisible; and she no longer acted, allowing the 
mysterious forces that enveloped her to rule, untram¬ 
meled, her coming fate. She began, each evening, by 
lamplight, to read over again her venerable copy of 
The Golden Legend , and she rose from it delighted as 
in the ingenuous enthusiasm of her youth; she did not 
doubt the reality of a single miracle, persuaded that 
the power of the unknown was boundless for the ulti¬ 
mate triumph of pure souls. 

It happened that the upholsterer of the cathedral 
vestry had come to order of the Huberts a panel of 
very rich embroidery, for the episcopal seat of Mon¬ 
seigneur. This panel, a yard and a half wide and three 


THE DREAM 


161 


yards long, was to be let into the lower back woodwork, 
and to represent two angels, of natural size, holding a 
crown, under which were to appear the armorial bear¬ 
ings of the Hautecceurs. It called for bas-relief em¬ 
broidery, a work that demands much art and a great 
expenditure of physical force. The Huberts, at first, 
wished to refuse, fearing to give too great a fatigue to 
Angelica, especially to sadden her, embroidering those 
arms, where, thread by thread, for weeks, she would 
live her memories over again. But she insisted on 
retaining the order, setting to work each morning with 
an extraordinary energy, as though she was pleased to 
weary herself, as though she needed to exhaust her 
body in order to be calm. 

And thus life went on in the old-fashioned work¬ 
shop, always the same, as regular as if the heartsfor 
one moment had not beaten so wildly. While Hubert 
busied himself with the frames, drew, stretched and 
loosened the looms, Hubertine helped Angelica, both 
with worn fingers, when evening came. 

For the angels and the ornaments, it had been 
necessary to divide each subject into several parts, 
which were treated separately. Angelica, in order to 
bring out the prominent features, stretched, with a 
spindle, heavy ecru threads, which she covered in 
the reverse direction with Brittany thread; and, as she 
went on, using the menne-lourd as a modeling tool, 
she curved the threads, giving the proper folds to the 
draperies of the angels, bringing out the details of the 
ornaments. 

It was really a work of sculpture. Then, when the 
form was obtained, Hubertine and she threw over it 
threads of gold, which they sewed with basket stitches. 
That produced a whole bas-relief of gold, of an incom¬ 
parable softness and splendor, beaming like a sun in 
the center of the darkened surroundings. The old 
tools were all there, ranged in their order of sequence, 
The Dream u 


THE DREAM 


162 

the cutter, the punches, the mallets, the hammers; on 
the frames were lying the scrap-basket and the paste- 
jar, the thimbles and the needles; and away in the 
corner, where they were growing rusty, the diligent, 
the hand-spindle, the reel with its winches, seemed 
asleep, drowsy in the great peace which came in through 
the open windows. 

The days went by, Angelica breaking needle after 
needle, from morning till night, so hard was it to sew 
the gold through the thickness of the waxed threads. 
One would have said she was wholly absorbed in this 
tough task, both body and spirit, to the point of ceas¬ 
ing to think. As soon as nine o’clock came, she was 
ready to drop from weariness, so she went to bed and 
slept a leaden sleep. When the work allowed her 
brain a minute’s liberty, she was astonished at never 
seeing Felicien. Though she did nothing to meet him, 
she thought that he himself should have overcome 
everything to be near her. But she approved him in 
showing himself so wise, she would have chidden him 
had he shown a wish to hurry matters on. Doubtless 
he also was awaiting the prodigy. It was the sole ex¬ 
pectation on which she was now living, hoping every 
night that it would be for the morrow. She had not, 
till then, felt any rebellion. Sometimes, however, she 
lifted her head. What, nothing yet! And she violent¬ 
ly thrust her needle, from which her little hands were 
bleeding. Often she had to draw it with pliers. 
When the needle broke, with the dry noise of glass 
breaking, she did not even make a gesture of im¬ 
patience. 

Hubertine felt more troubled every day seeing the 
girl so strangely sunk in her work, and, as the time of 
the great washing was come, she obliged her to leave 
the panel of embroidery, to live four good days of active 
life under the bright sun’s rays. Mother Gabet, whose 
rheumatism no longer troubled her, was able to help in 
the soaping and rinsing. It was a fete day in the Clos- 



THE DREAM 


163 

Marie; this end of August had such an admirable 
splendor with its ardent sky, amidst the deep black 
shadowings, while a delicious freshness exhaled from 
the Chevrotte, the bubbling waters of which ran cold 
under the close-planted willows. And Angelica passed 
the first day very gayly, beating and dipping the linen, 
enjoying the river, the elms, the mill in ruins, the turf, 
all these friendly things so full of remembrances. Was 
it not there that she had known Felicien, at first mys¬ 
terious under the moon, then so adorably awkward, the 
morning he had saved the dressing sacque that was 
being blown away? After each piece that she rinsed 
she could not help casting a glance toward the gate of 
the See-house, barred for years. Had she not passed 
once through it on his arm? Perhaps he was going to 
open it suddenly to take her away and lead her to his 
father’s feet. This hope seemed to give wings to her 
heavy task, in the splashings of the foam. 

The next day, as Mother Gabet wheeled the last 
barrow-load of linen, which she, with Angelica, spread 
out, she interrupted her endless chatter to say without 
malice: 

“ By the way, you know that Monseigneur has set¬ 
tled everything for his son’s marriage? ” 

The young girl, just about stretching a sheet, knelt 
on the grass, her heart failing her. 

“ Yes, everybody is talking about it—. Monseign¬ 
eur’s son will marry Mademoiselle Voincourt this fall 
—. All was arranged the day before yesterday, it 
appears. ” 

She remained on her knees, a flood of confused ideas 
buzzing in her head. The news did not surprise her; 
she felt it to be true. Her mother had warned her 
she was to expect it. But in this first moment what 
weakened her was the thought that, trembling before 
his father, Felicien might, on some evening of weari¬ 
ness, marry this one without loving her. Then he 
would be lost for her, whom he worshiped. Never 


THE DREAM 


164 

had she dreamt of this possible weakness, and now 
suddenly she saw him bent under the hard law of duty, 
causing, in the name of obedience, the wretchedness 
of them both/ And, still without moving, she raised 
her eyes to the gate, a rebellion at last filling her very 
soul, a wild desire to go and shake the bars of that 
gate, to open it with her nails, to run to him and sus¬ 
tain him with her courage, so that he should not give 
in. 

And she was startled to hear herself answering 
Mother Gabet, in the purely mechanical instinct to 
hide her trouble. 

“ Ah! it is Mademoiselle Claire he is marrying. 
She is very beautiful, and they say she is very good ” — 
all of a sudden she had taken her resolve. The old 
woman gone, she would start and join him. She had 
waited long enough, she would throw off her oath not 
to see him again, as a troublesome obstacle. What 
right had they to separate them thus? Everything 
cried out their love, the cathedral, the cool waters, the 
old elms, among which they had loved each other. 
Since their tenderness had grown there, it was there 
that she wished to take it up again, to fly away at his 
side, far away, so far that never again should they be 
found. 

“ Well, we’re done,” said Mother Gabet at last, as 
she came back from hanging the last towels on a bush. 
“ In two hours everything will be dry. So good¬ 
evening, Miss, since you need me no more.” 

Now, standing in the middle of all this florescence 
of linen, shining on the green grass, Angelica dreamt 
of that other day, when, in the high wind amid the 
clacking of the sheets and the clothes, their hearts had 
gone to one another so candidly. Why had he ceased 
to come and see her? Why was he not at this rendez¬ 
vous, in this wholesome gayety of the washing! Well, 
never mind, in a moment, when she should hold him 
again in her arms, she knew that he would belong only 


THE DREAM 


165 

to her. She would not even need to reproach him for 
his weakness; it would be sufficient that she should be 
there for him to recover his mighty will that they should 
be happy together and forever. She had but to join 
him, and he would dare all in an instant. 

An hour went by, Angelica walked slowly between 
the pieces of linen, herself quite white under the daz¬ 
zling radiance of the sun, and a confused voice rose 
within her, and growing stronger and stronger pre¬ 
vented her from going over there to the gate. She 
became frightened at this commencing struggle. What 
then? What was it speaking besides her will within 
her? Another something, that had been put there, 
doubtless, crossed her, upset the divine simplicity of 
her passion. It was so simple to run to him whom 
one loved; and she could no longer do so; the torment 
of doubt held her. She had sworn, and then perhaps 
it would be very wrong. In the evening, when the 
washing had dried, and Hubertine had come to help 
her bring it in, she had not yet made up her mind, she 
gave herself the night for reflection. Her arms, over¬ 
flowing with these snowy, fragrant linens, she threw a 
look of uneasiness at the Clos Marie, already bathed in 
twilight, as toward a corner of friendly nature refusing 
to be her accomplice. 

The next day Angelica woke up, full of trouble. 
Other nights went by, without bringing her the power 
to decide. She only found some calm in her certitude 
of being loved. That still remained impregnable; she 
reposed in it divinely. Being loved, she could wait, 
she could bear everything. Impulses of charity seized 
her again; she was moved at the least suffering; her 
eyes, swollen with tears, were always ready to flow. 
Father Mascart managed to get tobacco; the Chouteaux 
even got preserves from her. But especially did the 
Lemballeuses profit by the windfall. Tiennette had 
been seen on fete days wearing one of the good young 
lady’s dresses. And it came about, one day, as Angelica 


THE DREAM 


166 

was taking to Mother Lemballeuse some underclothing 
she had promised her the day before, she noticed from 
afar, at the old beggar’s house, Madame de Voincourt 
and her daughter Claire, accompanied by Felicien. 
The latter, doubtless, had brought them. She did not 
show herself; she came back, her heart frozen. Two 
days later she saw them again, coming out, all three, 
from the Chouteaux’; and, another morning, Father 
Mascart told her of a visit from the fine young man 
with the two ladies. Then she abandoned her poor; 
they no longer belonged to her, since, after having 
taken them from her, Felicien gave them to these 
women; she stopped going out, for fear of meeting 
them again, of receiving a wound at her heart, the 
suffering of which grew, each day, deeper and deeper; 
she felt that something was dying within her; that her 
life was ebbing away, drop by drop. 

It was at night, after one of these discoveries, that, 
alone in her room, choked with anguish, she allowed 
this cry to escape her: 

" He loves me no longer! ” 

It seemed that she saw Claire de Voincourt,- tall, 
beautiful, with her crown of black hair; and, beside 
her, Felicien, slender and proud. Were they not 
made for each other, both of the same race, both so 
well matched that one would have thought them 
already married? 

<f He loves me no longer; he loves me no longer! ” 

It burst within her heart, with a great noise of ruin. 
Her faith thus shaken, everything else went down, 
without her being able to regain self-possession enough 
to examine, to coldly discuss, the facts. The night 
before she believed yet; at the present hour she 
believed no longer; a breath, come she knew not 
whence, had sufficed; and, at a blow, she had fallen to 
the extreme misery, she believed herself forsaken. 

Had he not told her, himself, in days gone by, that 
this was the grief of griefs, the intolerable torture? 


THE DREAM 


167 

Till then she had been able to resign herself, she felt 
so strong awaiting the miracle. But her strength left 
her with her faith; she slipped to a child’s distress. 
And the agonizing struggle commenced. 

At first she made an appeal to her pride; so much 
the better if he loved her no longer ! For she was too 
proud to love him still. And she lied to herself, she 
affected to be free, to hum, with a careless heart, while 
she embroidered the coat of arms of the Hautecoeurs, 
at which she had set herself. But her heart swelled to 
bursting; she had the shame of acknowledging to her¬ 
self that she was cowardly enough to love him still, to 
love him more. For a whole week, the arms, as they 
came out, thread by thread, beneath her fingers, filled 
her soul with unutterable grief. “ Quarterly; first and 
fourth, argent, a cross patonce between four crosslets 
or, for Jerusalem; second and third, azure a fortress 
between three fleurs-de-lis or,on an escutcheon sable 
a human heart argent, for Ha2itecceur. The colors were 
of twisted silk; the metals of gold and silver thread. 
What misery to feel her hand tremble, to bow her head 
that she might hide her eyes, which the glare of these 
bearings blinded to tears ! She thought only of him, 
she worshiped him in the splendor of his legendary 
nobility; and, when she embroidered the motto: “If 
God will, I will,” in black silk, on a silver pennant, she 
well understood that she was his slave, that never more 
could she be her own again. Her tears prevented her 
seeing, while, mechanically, she went on plying her 
needle. 

Then it was pitiable, Angelica clutching in despair to 
her passion struggling against that hopeless love which 
she could not kill. At times she wished to run to Fe- 
licien, to win him back to her by throwing her arms 
around his neck, and still the battle recommenced. 
And again she thought she had conquered ; a great si¬ 
lence made itself felt within her ; she thought, she saw 
herself as she would look upon a stranger, quite small, 


168 


THE DREAM 


quite coxd, kneeling like an obedient child, in the hu¬ 
mility of renunciation. It was no longer her natural 
self, it was the good girl she was becoming, that her 
surroundings and education had made her. Then a 
flush of blood arose, and blinded her ; her fine health, 
her ardent youthfulness, seemed to take the bit in their 
teeth like frightened horses ; and she was about yield¬ 
ing once more to her pride and to her passion, to all the 
violent unknown of her origin. Why, then, should she 
obey? There was no duty, there was nothing but un¬ 
trammeled desire. Already she prepared her escape, 
she calculated the favorable time to force open the gate 
of the See-house. But almost at once the anguish came 
back, a numb uneasiness, the torment of doubt. If 
she gave in to these evil thoughts she would suffer an 
everlasting remorse. Hours, abominable hours, passed 
in that uncertainty as to the way to choose, under 
this inward tempest, which, ceaselessly, threw her from 
the revolt of her love to the horror of her sin. And 
she came out, weakened in body and soul, from each 
victory over her heart. 

One evening, just as she felt that she must leave the 
house and rejoin Felicien, in her distress at not finding 
strength to resist her passion, she suddenly remembered 
the little ward-book. She took it from the bottom of 
the chest, turned over the leaves, striking herself, as it 
were, on one cheek and then on the other, as she found 
recorded on every page the baseness of her birth, and 
thus did she quash her ardent thirst for humiliation. 
Father and mother unknown; no name; nothing but a 
date and a number, the absolute lonesomeness of a wild 
plant growing on the wayside! And the memories 
rose in crowds, the rich meadows of the Nievre, the 
cattle she had tended there, the flat and dusty road of 
Soulanges, where she walked barefooted, Mother Nini, 
who slapped her when she stole apples. Some pages 
especially awoke her memory, those which stated, every 
three months, the visits of the sub-inspector and of the 


THE DREAM 


169 

doctor, the signatures sometimes accompanied by 
observations and bits of information; an illness, of 
which she nearly died; a claim of her nurse for some 
shoes accidentally burnt; the bad marks for her indom¬ 
itable temper. It was the journal of her misery. 
But one statement at last brought the tears, 
the official statement relating to the breaking 
of the necklace she had kept till she was six 
years old. She remembered how she instinctively 
hated it, this necklace of olive-shaped beads 
carved of bone, threaded on a silken twist, and fastened 
by a silver medal bearing the date of her entry and her 
number. She had soon guessed it to be a slave’s col¬ 
lar, and she would have broken it with her own little 
hands, had it not been for the fear of consequences. 
Then, as she grew older, she complained that it 
strangled her. For one year more it was left around 
her neck. What joy it was, when at last the sub-in¬ 
spector had cut the twist in the presence of the mayor 
of the village, replacing this sign of her identity by a 
formal written description, where were inscribed al¬ 
ready her violet eyes and her fine golden hair! And 
yet she still felt, around her neck, this collar, like that 
of a domestic animal thus marked to be everywhere 
recognized; it remained as imbedded in her flesh; it 
choked her. That day, as she read the page, humility 
came again, with a fearful force, sending her back to 
her room sobbing, unworthy to be loved. Twice 
again the little ward-book saved her. Then it became 
itself powerless against her revolting spirits. 

But it was at night that the crisis of temptation tor¬ 
mented her most. Before going to bed, to purify her 
sleep, she imposed it upon herself to read over the 
legend. But, her forehead between her hands, she no 
longer understood; the miracles only stupefied her; 
she looked at them as upon a colorless flight of phan¬ 
toms. Then, in her wide bed, after a leaden prostra¬ 
tion, a sudden anguish awoke her with a start, in the 


170 


THE DREAM 


midst of darkness. She sat up, bewildered, kneeling 
among the tossed coverings, her temples bathed in 
moisture, with a shuddering quiver; and she clasped 
her hands and stammered: 

“ My God, why hast Thou forsaken me? ” For her 
distress was to feel herself so alone at such moments 
in the cheerless gloom. She had dreamed of Felicien; 
she trembled with eagerness to dress and join him, no 
one being there to prevent her. It was as if the divine 
grace withdrew from her, as if God ceased to be around 
her, as if all her surroundings deserted her. Despair¬ 
ingly she called to the unknown, she listened to the 
invisible. And the air was empty, no whispering 
voices, no mysterious flutterings. All seemed dead, 
the Clos-Marie, with the Chevrotte, the willows, the 
grasses, the elms of the See-house, and the cathedral 
itself. Nothing remained of the dreams she had 
cherished there; the white flight of the virgins, in fad¬ 
ing away, had left of all these but a sepulchre. She 
was filled with agony in her helplessness, disarmed, as 
a Christian of the primitive church overcome by hered¬ 
itary sin, as soon as the supernatural aid ceased. In 
the dreamy silence of this protecting corner she listened 
to these wicked voices, growing again and howling, to 
this heredity of evil triumphing over the education she 
had received. If, two minutes longer, no help came 
to her from the unknown forces, if things around her 
did not awake and sustain her, she would surely fall, 
she would go to her ruin. 

“ My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" 
And on her knees, in the center of her wide bed, she, 
so small, so delicate, felt herself to be dying. 

Then each time, until now, at the moment of her 
direst distress, a freshness relieved her. It was the 
sacred grace that had pity, that came back to her, 
granting her again her illusion. She sprang barefooted 
to the floor of her room, she ran to the window with a 
rush, and there she heard once more the voices, the 


THE DREAM 


171 

invisible wings fanned her hair, the people of the Le¬ 
gend, risen from the trees and the stones, surrounded 
her in crowds. Her purity, her goodness, all that was 
of her in the things, came back to her and saved her. 
From that time forth she was no longer afraid, she knew 
she was watched over. Agnes had returned, accom¬ 
panied by the virgins, wandering softly through the 
quivering air. It was a far-off encouragement, a long 
murmur of victory, which reached her, blended with 
the night wind. For an hour she breathed this calm¬ 
ing sweetness, still sad to death, but firm in her will to 
die of her grief rather than be false to her oath. At 
last, cruelly tired, she returned to her bed, she fell 
asleep with the fear of the next day’s crisis, still tor¬ 
mented by this idea that she would at last succumb if 
she thus grew weaker each time. 

And, indeed, a languor was draggingdown Angelica, 
since the day she no longer believed herself to be loved 
by Felicien. She felt mortally wounded, she was dy¬ 
ing hour by hour, mute, without a plaint. At first it 
had shown itself by some unusual lassitude; she was 
suddenly out of breath; she was obliged to let go her 
thread, to remain a moment with weakened eyes, lost 
in vacancy. Then she ceased eating, scarcely taking 
a few sips of milk; and she hid her bread, threw it to 
the neighboring fowls, not to cause anxiety to her par¬ 
ents. A doctor was summoned, and, discovering 
nothing, attributed it all to her too secluded life, content¬ 
ing himself with recommending exercise. It was a fading 
away of her whole being, a slow disappearance. Her 
body floated as if obeying the swinging of two great 
wings; light seemed to shine out from her wasted face, 
where her soul burned. And she could not even come 
down the stairs without holding on tremblingly, with 
both hands, to the walls of the staircase. But she was 
determined, keeping up a brave appearance as soon as 
she felt that she was being noticed, wishing, in spite of 
all, to finish the panel of stiff embroidery for the seat of 





1/2 


THE DREAM 


Monseigneur. And her little slender hands had no 
v longer the strength, when her needle broke, to draw it 
out with the pliers. 

And so it came that, one morning, when Hubert and 
Hubertine, obliged to go out, had left her alone work¬ 
ing, the embroiderer coming back first, found her on 
the floor, slipped from her chair, in a swoon, fallen 
lifeless before her frame. She had been overcome, 
thus, before her task, one of the great angels remain¬ 
ing unfinished. Grief-stricken, Hubert took her in his 
arms, tried to have her stand up; but she fell again, as 
if unable to awaken from her oblivion. 

“My darling, my darling — answer me, for pity’s 
sake.” 

At last she opened her eyes, she looked on with a 
desolate gaze. Why did he wish her to come to life? 
She was so happy, dead! 

“ What is it, my darling? You have deceived us, 
then; you still love him? ” 

She did not answer; she looked at him with her air 
of unutterable sadness. Then, with a despairing clasp, 
he lifted her, he carried her up to her room; and, when 
he had laid her on the bed, so white, so feeble; he wept 
at the cruel thing he had done in separating her from 
him whom she loved. 

“ I would have given him to you, I would! Why 
did you tell me nothing?” 

But she did not speak, her eye-lids closed, and she 
seemed to fall asleep. He remained standing, his eyes 
on her thin, lily-like face, his heart bleeding with pity. 
Then, as she breathed softly, he went down again, 
hearing his wife come in. 

Down-stairs, in the work-room, they talked the mat¬ 
ter over. Hubertine had just taken off her hat, and he 
at once told her how he had picked the child up there, 
and that she now lay slumbering on her bed, stricken 
to death. 

“ We were mistaken; she is still thinking of this boy, 


THE DREAM 


173 


and she is dying of it. Ah! if you knew the blow 
that I received, the remorse that tortured me, when I 
understood, and carried her upstair§, so pitiable! It 
is our fault; we have separated them by falsehoods. 
What? you would let her suffer? you would say nothing 
to save her? ” 

Hubertine, like Angelica, was silent, looking at him 
with her calm, sensible look, all pale with grief. But 
he, impassioned by this suffering devotion which threw 
him out of his usual acquiescence, did not calm him¬ 
self, wringing his fevered hands. 

“Well, then! I will speak, I — I will tell her that 
Felicien loves her; that it is we who have had the 
cruelty to prevent his return, deceiving him also. Each 
one of her tears now, will burn into my heart. It 
would be a murder, I should think myself an accom¬ 
plice. I want her to be happy, yes! happy, in spite of 
all, by every means.-” 

He had drawn closer to his wife; he dared to cry out, 
his revolted tenderness growing the more irritated by 
the sad silence she kept. 

“ Since they love each other, they are the masters. 
There is nothing further, when one loves and is loved — 
yes! at any cost, happiness is legitimate.” 

At last Hubertine spoke, in her slow voice, erect, 
immovable. 

“He may take her from us, then? Is it that that 
you mean? He may marry her in spite of us—in spite of 
his father? Do you advise them to act so? Do you 
think they will be happy then—that love will suffice? ” 

And, without transition, in the same heart-broken 
voice, she continued: 

“ In coming back I passed through the cemetery; a 
hope still makes me enter it; I knelt once more on that 
stone worn out by our knees, and I prayed long.-” 

Hubert had turned pale, a cold shiver took away his 
fever. Verily, he knew it, the relentless mother’s 
tomb, where they had so often gone to weep and to re- 



174 


THE DREAM 


pent, accusing themselves of their disobedience, so that 
the dead should forgive, from the depths of the earth. 
And they remained there for hours, awaiting within 
them the budding of that grace, of that pardon, if ever it 
were vouchsafed to them. What they asked for, what 
they yearned for, was one more child, a child of pardon, 
the only sign by which they would know that they 
were at last forgiven. But nothing had come; the 
mother, cold and deaf, left them under that inexorable 
punishment, the death of their first and only child, 
that she had taken and carried away, that she refused 
to give back. 

“I prayed long,” repeated Hubertine, “I listened 
to hear if anything stirred-” 

Anxious, Hubert questioned her with a look. 

“ And nothing! No! Nothing rose from the earth, 
nothing quivered within me! Ah! it is finished, it is 
too late, we have willed our own misfortune.” 

Then, trembling, he asked: 

“ You accuse me?” 

“ Yes, you were guilty; I also committed a sin in 
following you. We disobeyed; our whole life has been 
marred by it.” 

“ And you are not happy?” 

“ No, I am not happy. A woman who has no children 
is not happy ; to love is nothing ; the love should be 
blessed.” 

He had sunk into a chair, feeling faint, his eyes big 
with tears. Never had she thus reproached him with 
the quick, ever-opened wound of their existence ; and 
she, who usually came sopromptly and comforted him 
whenever she had grieved him by an involuntary allu¬ 
sion, watched him suffer this time, still erect, without 
a gesture, without a step toward him. He wept, he 
cried aloud in the midst of his tears : 

“ Ah! the dear child upstairs, it is she that you 
are condemning. You will not let him marry her as I 




married you, so that she should suffer what you have 
suffered.” 

She replied with a movement of her head, simply, 
in all the strength and simplicity of her heart. 

“But you said yourself that the poor dear child 
would die of it. Do you, then, wish her death? ” 

“ Yes, her death, rather than a ruined life.” 

. He h ^d drawn himself up, shuddering, and he threw 
himself in her arms, and both sobbed. A long time 
they clasped each other. He gave in; she now had to 
lean on his shoulder to find enough courage. They 
came out from that struggle, despairing but resolute, 
shut in by a great and poignant silence, at the end of 
which, if God willed it, was the accepted death of the 
child. 

From that day forth Angelica had to remain in her 
room. Her feebleness grew such that she could not 
even come down to the work-room, for at once her 
head would become dizzy and her limbs give way. 
At first she walked, going as far as the balcony, assist¬ 
ing herself by the furniture. Then she had to content 
herself with going from her bed to her arm-chair. 
The journey was long, and she attempted it only morn¬ 
ing and evening, exhausted. Nevertheless, she still 
worked, leaving her embroidery in bas-relief, too ardu¬ 
ous, to embroider flowers in shaded silk; and she 
embroidered from nature a bouquet of scentless flowers, 
of hortensias and rose-mallows. The bouquet bloomed 
in a vase; often she rested a few minutes gazing at it, 
for the silk, so light, weighed heavily to her fingers. 
In two days she had wrought but one rose, quite fresh, 
shining on the satin ; but it was her life, she would hold 
the needle to her last breath. Emaciated by suffer¬ 
ings, laid low once more by the flight which bore her 
away, there remained of her but a flame, pure and 
most beautiful. 

Why struggle longer, since Felicien loved her no 
more ? Now, she was dying of this conviction; he 


176 


THE DREAM 


did not love her, perhaps he had never loved her. As 
long as she had the strength she had fought against 
her heart, her health, her youth, which impelled her to 
run and join him. Since she was riveted there, she 
had to resign herself to the inevitable. Truly it was 
all finished. 

One morning, as Hubert was settling her in her arm¬ 
chair, placing her little inert feet on a cushion, she 
said, with a smile : 

“ Ah ! I am quite sure to be good now, and not to 
run away.” 

Hubert hastened down-stairs, suffocated, fearing to 
burst into tears. 


CHAPTER XII. 

That night Angelica could not sleep. An insomnia 
kept her eye-lids burning, in the extreme feebleness 
to which she had sunk; and, as the Huberts had gone 
to bed, and midnight was about to strike, she pre¬ 
ferred to rise in spite of the immense effort, frightened 
at the thought of dying if she remained longer in bed. 

She was choking. She slipped on a wrapper, 
dragged herself to the window, which she threw wide 
open. The winter was rainy, of a humid mildness. 
Then she abandoned herself in the arm-chair, after 
having turned up the wick of the lamp on the little 
table before her, which was left lighted all night. 
There, near the volume of The Golden Legend, was 
the bouquet of rose-mallows and hortensias which she 
was copying. And, in her desire to grasp life again, 
she had a fancy to work, and, drawing her frame to¬ 
ward her, took a few stitches with her wandering hands. 
The red silk of the rose bled between her white fingers; 



THE DREAM 177 

it seemed to be the blood of her veins, which was 
flowing away drop by drop. 

But she, who for two hours had vainly tossed in 
her burning sheets, yielded almost at once to sleep, as 
soon as she was seated. Her head fell back, sustained 
by the old chair, inclining slightly to the right 
shoulder, and, the silk having remained between her 
motionless fingers, one would have said she was still 
at work. Very pale, very calm, she slept under the 
lamplight, in that chamber of tomb-like peace and 
whiteness. The diffused glare paled the great royal 
bed, draped with its faded pink chintz. Only the 
chest, the wardrobe, the old oaken seats, stood out, 
staining the walls as with the blackness of mourning. 
Minutes went by, she slept, very calm and very 
white. 

At last there was a sound. And, on the balcony, 
Felicien appeared, trembling, grown thin as herself. 
With bewildered look, he sprang into the room and 
perceived her, sunk thus within the chair, piteous, and 
so beautiful beneath the lamp-light. An infinite pain 
seized his heart; he advanced and knelt, dropping down 
in desolate contemplation. Was she then no longer? 
Had pain so wasted her that she seemed to weigh 
nothing, to have thrown herself there like a feather 
that the wind could blow away at its pleasure? In her 
clear sleep, her suffering could be seen wrapped in 
resignation. He recognized her only by her lily-like 
grace, by the slenderness of her delicate neck on her 
sloping shoulders, by her long, transfigured face, like a 
virgin’s, taking her flight to heaven. Her hair was 
nothing but light, the snow-like soul shone out be¬ 
neath the silky transparency of her skin; she had the 
beauty of saints set free from the body, and he re¬ 
mained dazzled and desperate at the sight of it, struck 
by an emotion that held him motionless, with clasped 
hands. She did not awake; he still gazed at her. 

The Dream 12 


178 


THE DREAM 


A slight breath from the lips of Felicien must have 
passed over the face of Angelica. All at once she 
opened her eyes. She did not stir; she, in turn, 
gazed at him with a smile, as in a dream. It was he; 
she recognized him, changed though he was. But she 
thought herself still slumbering, for she had often seen 
him thus in her sleep, to her deeper pain on awaken¬ 
ing. 

He held out his hands; he spoke: 

“ Sweet soul, I love you. I was told you suffered, 
and I hastened to you. Here I am; I love you.” 

She raised herself quickly. 

She shuddered. She passed her fingers over her eye¬ 
lids with a mechanical gesture. 

“ Have no more doubts. I am at your feet, and I 
love you; I love you always.” 

Then she gave a cry. 

“ Ah! it is you! I no longer expected you, and it is 
you-” 

With her groping hands she had taken his, to make 
certain that he was not a wandering vision of her 
sleep. 

“ You love me still, and I love you, ah! in spite of 
all, and more than I ever believed myself able to 
love!” 

It was a delirium of happiness, a first moment of 
absolute bliss, in which they forgot everything, giving 
themselves up wholly to that certainty of loving each 
other still, and of telling each other of it. The suf¬ 
ferings of the night before, the obstacles of the morrow, 
had disappeared; they did not know how they were 
there: but there they were, mingling their sweet tears, 
clasping each other in a chaste embrace, he, lost in 
pity; she, so emaciated by grief that he had of her, 
between his arms, but a breath. In the enchantment 
of her surprise, she remained as though paralyzed, 
trembling and blissful as she lay back in her arm-chair 



THE DREAM 


179 

in a total forgetfulness of the body, raising herself only 
to fall back again in the intoxication of her joy. 

“Ah! dear lord, my sole desire is accomplished; I 
have seen you again before I die.” 

He raised his head, he made a gesture of anguish. 

“ Die! But you will not! I am here; I love you.” 

She smiled divinely. 

“Oh! I can die, since you love me. It no longer 
frightens me, I will go to sleep thus, on your shoulder. 
Tell me again that you love me.” 

“ I love you, as I loved you yesterday, as I shall 
love you to-morrow. Never doubt it, it is for eternity. ” 

“ Yes, for eternity, we love each other.” 

Angelica, in ecstacy, her eyes vague, looked before 
her into the whiteness of the room. But, suddenly, 
an awakening shook her. She began to reflect, at 
last, amid this great felicity which had bewildered her. 
And the facts astonished her. 

“ You love me; why did you not come? ” 

“ Your parents told me that you no longer loved me. 

I myself nearly died of it. And it was when I heard 
that you were ill, that I made up my mind I could but 
be turned away from this house, the door of which 
was closed upon me.” 

“ Yes, my mother likewise told me that you loved 
me no longer, and I believed my mother, for I had met 
you with this young lady; I thought that you were 
obeying Monseigneur.” 

“ No, I was waiting. But I have been cowardly, I 
have trembled before him.” 

There was a pause. Angelica had straightened her¬ 
self up, her face became hardened, her forehead drawn 
into a fold of anger. 

“ Then, they have deceived us both, they have lied 
to us, to separate us. Oh ! it is abominable ! it 
releases us from our oaths ! We are free.” 

A furious contempt had brought her to her feet. 
She no longer felt her pain; her strength returned in 


i8o 


THE DREAM 


this awakening of her passion and her pride. To have 
believed her dream dead, and all at once to find it 
again living and glowing! To tell each other that they 
had not lapsed from their love, that others were the 
culpable ones. This sudden growing of her whole 
self, this triumph, certain at last, exalted her, threw 
her into a supreme revolt. 

“ Come, let us go,” said she, simply. 

And she walked through the room, valiant, in all her 
energy and will. Already she was choosing a mantle 
with which to cover her shoulders. A bit of lace on 
her head would suffice. 

Felicien gave a cry of happiness, for she anticipated 
his design; he thought but of flight, but had not the 
audacity to propose it to her. Oh, to start off 
together; to disappear, to cut short all these annoy¬ 
ances, all these obstacles, and that in an instant, thus 
avoiding even the struggle of reflection! 

“ Yes, at once, let us start, my sweet heart. I came 
to fetch you, I know where to find a carriage. Before 
daybreak we will be far, so far away, that no one will 
be able to overtake us. ” 

She opened the drawers, she closed them violently, 
without taking anything from them, in a growing exul¬ 
tation. What! for weeks she had been torturing her¬ 
self ; she had tried to banish him from her memory, she 
even thought that she had succeeded! And there was 
nothing done, and this fearful trial was to be gone 
through over again! No, never would she have strength 
enough. Since they loved each other it was very sim¬ 
ple; they would marry, no power should separate them 
one from the other. 

“ Come now, what shall I take with me? Ah, I was 
so silly with my childish scruples. When I think that 
they have stooped so low as to lie! Yes, I could have 
died, not even then would they have called you! Must 
I take linen,clothes? tell me. Here is a warmer gown. 
And they had put a lot of ideas, a lot of fears into my 


THE DREAM 


181 


head. This is right, and that is wrong; one can do 
this, and one cannot do that—such complicated non¬ 
sense, enough to make one daft. They always lie; 
nothing they say is true. There is but the happiness 
of living, of listening to one’s heart, of loving him who 
loves you. You are fortune, beauty, youth, my dear 
lord, and I give myself to you, and my sole joy is in 
you, and do with me what you wish-” 

She triumphed in a blaze of hereditary fires that 
had been thought dead. A wave of music seemed to 
elate her; she saw their royal departure, this son of 
princes taking her away, making her queen of a far-off 
kingdom; and she followed him, clinging to his side, 
nestling to his bosom, in such a quiver of ignorant 
passion that her whole body fainted with felicity. To 
be only those two, to abandon themselves to the gallop 
of horses, to flee, clasped in each other’s arms! 

“ I take nothing away; is that not best? What is the 
use?” 

He was burning with impatience, already standing at 
the door. 

“ No, nothing. —Let us start quickly.” 

“ Yes, that’s right, let us start.” 

And she joined him. But she turned again, she 
wished to give a last look to the room. The lamp 
burned with the same pale softness, the bouquet of hor- 
tensias and rose-mallows still bloomed; a rose half fin¬ 
ished, but already living, in the center of the frame, 
seemed to await her. And never before had the room 
appeared so white to her, the walls white, the bed 
white, the air white, as though filled with a white 
breath. 

Something within her vacillated, and she was obliged 
to lean on the back of a chair, which was on hand near 
the door. 

“ What ails you?” asked Felicien, anxiously. 

She did not answer; she breathed with difficulty. 



i 82 


THE DREAM 


Then, seized once more with a shiver, her knees weak¬ 
ening, she was forced to sit down. 

“ Do not alarm yourself, it is nothing. A minute’s 
rest only, and we go.”. 

They were silent. She was looking around the 
room as though she had forgotten something precious, 
she could not say what. It was a regret, at first 
slight, then growing, and little by little weighing more 
heavily upon her. She could no longer remember. 
Was it all this whiteness that was thus holding her 
back? She had always loved white, so much so indeed 
as to steal little bits of white silk, to give herself the 
joy of it in secret. 

“ One minute; one minute more, and we will go, 
my dear lord. ” 

But she no longer made even an effort to rise. 
Anxiously he knelt before her. 

“ You are suffering; can I do nothing to relieve you? 
If you are cold, I will take your little feet in my 
hands, and I will warm them until they are brave 
enough to run. ” 

She shook her head. 

“ No, no, I am not cold; I will be able to walk; wait 
a minute, a single minute.” 

He saw well that invisible chains were binding her, 
fastening her so strongly that, in a minute perhaps, it 
would be impossible to tear her away from them. And, 
if he did not snatch her at once, he thought of the 
inevitable struggle with his father the next day, that 
struggle from which he had recoiled for weeks. Then 
he became urgent, giving forth his ardent supplications. 

“ Come, the roads are dark at this hour the car¬ 
riage will bear us away in the night, and we will go on 
and on, rocked, sleeping in each other’s arms, a£ though 
hidden under down, without fearing the chilliness of 
the hour. And when day dawns we will continue in 
the sunlight, further and further, until we reach the 
land where one is happy. No one will know us; we 


THE DREAM 


183 


will live away from all, hidden under the shadows of 
some great garden, having no need but to love each 
other more and more on each returning day. There 
will be flower bushes tall as trees, fruits sweet as honey. 
And we will live-on nothing amidst that eternal spring; 
we will live upon kisses, my sweet one.” 

She shuddered under this burning love which he thus 
breathed upon her. All her being failed her at this 
rush of promised joys. 

“ Oh! in a moment, presently! ” 

“ Then, if the journey tires you, we will come back 
here, we will erect once more the walls of the chateau 
d’Hautecceur, and we will end our days there. It is 
my dream. All my fortune, if need be, will be thrown 
into it, open handed. Once more th z donjon will com¬ 
mand the two valleys. We will occupy the main 
building, between the tower of David and the tower of 
Charlemagne. The colossus in its entirety will be 
re-established, as in the days of its power; the bas¬ 
tions, the ramparts, the chapel, in the barbarous luxury 
of former days. And we shall lead there the life of 
ancient times, you princess and I prince, among a fol¬ 
lowing of men at arms and pages. Our walls,fifteen 
feet thick, will isolate us; we will live in a legend. 
See! the sun is going down behind the hills, we are 
coming back from the chase on our great palfreys, 
amidst the homage of kneeling villagers. The horn is 
sounded, the drawbridge is lowered. Kings, at even¬ 
ing, will sit at our table. At night our couch will be 
stretched on a raised stand under a lofty canopy. 
Music will be heard, far off, most sweet, while we will 
fall asleep in each other’s arms, amidst purple and gold. ” 

Quivering, she now smiled with a proud joy, as she 
struggled with the suffering which she felt coming back, 
overwhelming her, soon effacing the smile from her 
piteous mouth! And, as with a mechanical gesture she 
swept away the tempting visions, his passionate appeals 


THE DREAM 


184 

increased, he strove to seize her, to make her his, in 
his frenzied arms. 

“ Oh! come, oh! be mine — Let us fly, let us forget 
everything in our bliss.” 

But she suddenly freed herself, escaping him, in an 
instinctive revolt; and, erect, this cry at last burst from 
her lips: 

“ No, no, I cannot, I cannot! ” 

Still, she moaned under the recurring temptation, 
hesitating, faltering. 

“ I beg of you, be good; do not urge me — wait. I 
would so wish to obey you, to prove to you that I love 
you, to go away at your side to far-off lands, to dwell 
royally together in the castle of your dreams. It once 
seemed so easy to me, I had so often gone over the 
plan of our flight. And now, what shall I say? It all 
seems impossible; it is as if all of a sudden the door 
had walled itself up, and I could not go out.” 

He wished once more to enthrall her; she silenced 
him with a gesture. 

“ No, speak not. How singular it is! As you speak 
to me those sweet things, so tender, which should con¬ 
vince me, a fear takes hold of me, a chill seizes me. 
Holy Virgin! how can it be? It is your very words 
that are putting me further from you. If you go on 
that way I shall no longer be able to listen to you, you 
will have to go. But, no, wait, wait a little while-.” 

And she slowly walked across the room, anxious, 
seeking to command herself, while he stood there 
motionless, in his despair. 

“ I had thought I loved you no longer, but it was 
surely wounded pride only; for when I found you, 
there at my feet just now, my heart leaped, my first 
impulse was to follow you as a slave —if I lt>ve you, 
then, why do you frighten me? And who is it that 
prevents my leaving this room, as though invisible 
hands held me on every side by each hair of my 
head?” 


THE DREAM 


185 

She had stopped near the bed, she came toward the 
wardrobe, passing thus before each piece of furniture. 
Certainly secret bonds united these to her. The white 
walls especially, the intense whiteness of the mansard 
ceiling, enwrapped her in a robe of candor which she 
could not have thrown off without tears. Yes, she 
knew it now, all these were parts and parcels of her 
being, the surroundingshad penetrated her very self. 
And she felt it the more when she stood before the 
embroidery frame which had remained under the lamp, 
klose to the table. Her heart melted at the sight of 
the rose she had begun and would never finish, if she 
left thus, like a criminal. Her years of toil were 
evoked in her memory, those years so good, so happy, 
such a long stretch of peace and uprightness; it all re¬ 
belled at the thought of a fault, at this possible flight 
in the arms of a lover. Thus had each day, the fresh 
little house of the embroiderers, the active and pure life 
she led there apart from the world, gained a stronger 
control over the blood of her veins. 

But he, feeling her once more about to be torn 
from him by the mute power of things, felt he must 
hasten their departure. 

“ Come, time flies; it will soon be too late.” 

Then, within her, light showed itself very clearly. 

“ It is already too late. You see well that I cannot 
follow you. There was within me, long ago, a passion¬ 
ate and proud self that would have thrown her two 
arms around your neck to be carried away. But I 
have been changed; I cannot find myself again. And, 
then, do you not hear everything in this room crying to 
me to remain? No, I no longer revolt; it has become 
my joy to obey.” 

Without speaking, without arguing with her, he tried 
to take her again, to lead her away, like a disobedient 
child, but she avoided him, escaping toward the 
window. 

“ No! For pity’s sake, leave me. A while ago, I 



THE DREAM 


% 186 

would have followed you. But it was the last rebel¬ 
lion. Little by little, unknown to me, that humility, 
and that feeling of sacrifice that were wrought into me, 
must, perforce, grow stronger. Also, at each return 
of my inborn sin, the shock is less cruel. I overcome 
myself with greater ease. And now the supreme 
shock has taken place; it is henceforth quite finished; 

I have conquered. Ah! dear lord, I love you so 
much! Let us do nothing against our happiness. To 
be happy, we must submit.” 

And, as he still made a step toward her, she found 
herself on the threshold of the wide-open window, on 
the balcony. 

“ You do not want me to throw myself over there. 
Listen, then, and understand that I have on my side all 
that surrounds me. The memory of the past speaks to 
me. I hear voices, and never have I heard them speak¬ 
ing so loud—behold! all the Clos Marie urge me 
not to mar my life and yours, in giving myself to you 
against the will of your father. That singing voice is 
the Chevrotte, so clear, so fresh, that it seems to have 
put within me the purity of crystal. That voice, as of 
a crowd, tender and deep, is that of an entire garden, 
of the grasses, the trees, of all the peaceful growth of 
that holy corner, working for the peace of my own 
life. And the voices come from further still, from the 
elms of the See-house, from that horizon of branches, 
the smallest of which interests itself in my victory — 
then, listen, that grand sovereign voice is my old friend 
the cathedral, which taught me so much, always 
awake in the night. Each one of its stones, the colon¬ 
nettes of its windows, the spires of its counter-forts, 
these buttresses of its apsis, have a murmur I dis¬ 
tinguish, a language I understand. Listen to what 
they say, that even in death, hope remains. When 
one is humiliated, love is still there and triumphs. 
And, now, listen again ! the air itself is full of whis- 


THE DREAM 187 

pering souls; these are my companions, the virgins, 
who come, invisible. Listen, listen ! ” 

Smiling, she had lifted her hand in a gesture of pro¬ 
found attention. Her whole being seemed enraptured 
in these floating whispers. They were the virgins of 
the Legend , whom in her childhood her imagination 
had evoked, and whose majestic flight rose from the 
old book, with its naive pictures, as it lay on the table. 
First, Agnes, robed in her hair, having on her 
finger the betrothal ring of Paulin the priest. Then 
all the others, Barbara, with her tower, Genevieve 
with her lambs, Cecilia with her viol, Agatha with her 
torn breasts, Elizabeth begging by the roadside, 
Catharine triumphing over the doctors. A miracle 
renders Lucy so heavy that a thousand men and five 
yoke of oxen cannot drag her to her ruin. The gov¬ 
ernor, who tries to kiss Anastasia, becomes blind. Then 
all of them, in the clear night, fly, very white, ,their 
bosoms still laid bare by the torturing-irons, letting flow 
in place of blood, rivers of milk. The air is bright 
with it, the darkness is illuminated as by a fall of stars. 
Ah! to die of love, as they did, to die a virgin, shining 
with whiteness, at the bridegroom’s first kiss! 

“ I am he who exists, Angelica, and you refuse me 

for dreams-” 

“ Dreams,” she murmured. 

“ And if they surround you, these visions, it is 
because you called them to life. Come, put more of 
your real self in these things, and they will be silent. ” 
She had a movement of exaltation. 

“ Oh! no, let them speak; let them speak louder! 
They are my strength; they give me the courage to 
resist you. It is grace, and never has it flooded me 
with so much strength. If it is but a dream, the dream 
that I once called around me, and which now comes 
back. What matters it? It saves me, it bears me away 
spotless atnong the apparitions. —Oh, renounce, obey 
as I do! I will not follow you! ” 



188 


THE DREAM 


In her weakness, she had drawn herself up, resolute, 
invincible. 

“ But you have been deceived,” he replied; “they 
have stooped to lies to separate us.” 

“ The fault of others could not excuse ours.” 

“ Oh! your heart has withdrawn from me; you love 
me no more.” 

“ I love you. I struggle against you only for our 
love and for our happiness. — Obtain the consent of 
your father, and I will follow you.” 

“ My father, you do not know him. God alone 
could unbend him. Then say it is finished! If my 
father orders me to marry Claire de Voincourt, must I 
then obey him? ” 

At this last blow, Angelica quailed. She could not 
restrain her moaning. 

“ Oh! that is too much. I entreat you, go away, 
do not be cruel. Why did you come? I was resigned, 
I was accustoming myself to this disaster of not being 
loved by you. And now you love me, and all my 
martyrdom begins again! How can I live now! ” 

Felicien thought she was giving in; he repeated: 

“ If my father wishes that I should marry her-” 

She braced herself against her pain; and she still 
managed to remain standing, in all the agony of her 
feelings. Then, dragging herself toward the table, as 
though to make way for him to go: 

“ Marry her; you must obey.” 

He found himself before the window, ready to leave, 
since she sent him away.” 

“ But you will die of it!” he exclaimed. 

She had calmed herself. She murmured, with a pale 
smile: 

“ Oh! it is half done.” 

One instant more, he looked at her so white, so worn, 
of the lightness of a feather borne away by the wind; 
he made a gesture of furious resolution, and disappeared 
in the darkness. 



THE DREAM 


189 


She leaned on the back of the arm-chair and, when 
he was no longer there, stretched out her hands de¬ 
spairingly toward the night. Heavy sobs shook her 
form, a moisture of anguish covered her face. Lord in 
Heaven! this was the end, she should see him no more. 
All her weakness had come back upon her, her weary 
limbs gave way beneath her. With great trouble she 
came to her bed, upon which she fell, victorious and 
breathless. The next morning they found her there, 
dying. Unheeded, the lamp had just gone out, at 
day-break, in the triumphal whiteness of the room. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ANGELICA was dying. It was ten o’clock, a clear 
morning toward the end of the winter, a bracing 
weather under a white sky, all brightened with sun¬ 
light. In the great royal bed, draped with antique 
pink chintz, she never stirred, unconscioussincethenight 
before. Lying at full length, her little ivory hands 
dropped helpless upon the sheets, she had not opened 
her eyes again; and her delicate profile had grown 
thinner beneath the golden nimbus of her hair; and 
she would have been thought already dead, had it not 
been for the barely perceptible breath from her lips. 

The night before Angelica had confessed herself, and 
had taken communion, feeling very ill. The good 
Abbe Cornille, toward three o’clock, had brought her 
the holy Eucharist. Then, in the evening, as death 
slowly chilled her, a great longing had come to her for 
the extreme unction, the celestial remedy, instituted 
for the healing of soul and body. Before losing con¬ 
sciousness her last words, scarcely a murmur, caught 
by Hubertine, had whispered a desire for the holy oils: 
“ Oh! at once, please, so that they may still be in time. ” 



190 


THE DREAM 


But the night was advancing, they had waited for day¬ 
light, and the abbe, who had been summoned, was at 
last coming. 

Everything was ready, the Huberts were putting the 
last touches to the room. Under the gay sun, which 
at this morning hour shone through the windows, it 
had the whiteness of the early dawn in the nudity of 
its great white walls. They had covered the table with 
a white cloth. On the right and left side of a crucifix 
two tapers were burning in the silver candlesticks 
brought up from the parlor. And the holy water and 
the sprinkler were also there, and a ewer of water with 
its basin, and a napkin, and two white porcelain plates, 
one filled with flocks of cotton-wool, the other with 
tiny paper bags. They had been to all the hot-houses 
of the lower town, without finding other flowers than 
great odorless, white peonies, and their enormous 
tufts garnished the table as with a flutter of white lace. 
And, in this intensified whiteness, Angelica, dying, 
still drew her feeble breath, her eye-lids closed. 

At his morning visit, the doctor had said that she 
would not live through the day. At any moment she 
might pass away without ever regaining consciousness. 
And the Huberts waited, resolute and grave, in silent 
despair. This thing must come to pass, in spite of 
their tears. If they had wished this death, preferring 
to see the child dead rather than rebellious, it was be¬ 
cause God had willed it so through them. Now it 
was all passing beyond their power, they could but 
submit. They regretted nothing, however prostrated 
with grief. Since she had been lying there, agoniz¬ 
ing, they had nursed her, refusing all outside succor. 
They found themselves alone again, at this lastjiour, 
and they waited. 

Hubert mechanically went to open the door of the 
earthenware stove, the roaring of which seemed like a 
moan. There fell a silence, a soft heat paled the 
peonies. For an instant Hubertine had been listening 


THE DREAM 


m 

to the noise of the cathedral behind the wall. The 
swaying of a bell made the old stones quiver; doubt¬ 
less the Abbe Cornille was leaving the church with the 
holy oils; and she went down to receive him at the 
threshold of the house. Two minutes went by, a great 
murmur filled the narrow staircase of the turret. 
Then, in the warm room, Hubert, struck with astonish¬ 
ment, began to tremble, while a religious fear, and a 
hope also, impelled him to fall to his knees. 

Instead of the old priest he was expecting, it was 
Monseigneur who entered, Monseigneur with his lace 
rochet, wearing the violet stole. and bearing the silver 
vessel containing the oil for the sick ones, the oil 
blessed by himself on Holy Thursday. His eagle eyes 
retained their fixed stare, his fine pale face, beneath 
the heavy curls of his white hair, seemed more majestic 
than ever before. And behind him, like a simple 
assistant, walked the Abbe Cornille, a crucifix in his 
hand, and the ritual under the other arm. 

Stopping one moment on the threshold the bishop 
said, in a grave voice: 

“ Pax huic domuiP 

“ Et omnibus habita7itibus in ea,” responded, in a 
lower tone, the priest. 

When they entered, Hubertine, who walked up 
behind them, she, too, trembling with awe, went and 
knelt close to her husband, and, both prostrated, gave 
up their whole soul to prayer. 

On the morrow of his visit to Angelica the terrible 
explanation had taken place between Felicien and his 
father. The morning of that same day he forced the 
doors, and intruded himself into the very oratory, where 
the bishop was still at his orisons, after one of those 
nights of awful struggle against the returning past. 
Within the deeply respectful son, bowed till then by 
fear, rebellion, so long choked back, was rife, and the 
shock was formidable that threw against one another 
these two men, of the same blood, quick to violence. 


192 


THE DREAM 


The old man, having left his prayer-stool, listened, his 
cheeks suddenly empurpled, erect, silent, in obstinate 
hauteur. The young man, his face equally flushed, 
poured out his heart, spoke in a voice that grew louder 
and louder, thundering. He spoke of Angelica, ill, 
agonizing; he told in what a crisis of alarmed tenderness 
he had wildly entreated her to fly with him, and how, 
in saint-like submissiveness and chastity, she had 
refused to follow him. Would it not be a murder to 
let her die, this obedient child, who refused to accept 
him, except from the hand of his father? When she 
could have him, his title, his fortune, she had cried 
“ No! ” She had struggled victoriously over passion. 
And he loved her, he, also, even unto death, and he 
despised himself for not being at her side, so as to die 
with her, in the same breath! Would any one have the 
cruelty to wish them both to be so miserable to the bit¬ 
ter end, when a word, a single “ Yes,” would make so 
much happiness? Ah! the pride of name, the vanity of 
riches, the stubborness of will; ought all these to weigh 
anything when two beings were to be made so happy? 
And he clasped and wrung his trembling hands, beside 
himself, demanding consent, still beseeching, already 
threatening. But the bishop, his face flushed, his lips 
swollen, with eyes aflame, at last opened his lips only 
to answer by the word of his might: “ Never! ” 

Then Felicien, in his rebellion, began to wander in 
his speech, losing all caution. He spoke of his mother; 
he struck his father as by lightning, recalling the dead. 
It was she that awoke within him, to claim the rights of 
passion. His father must never have loved her; must 
even have rejoiced at her death, since he could show 
himself so hard toward those who loved and wished to 
live. It was in vain that he had frozen himself in the 
renouncements of worship; she would return to haunt 
and torture him, since he tortured the child of their 
marriage. She still lived, since this child lived. She 
wished to live, in the children of her child, forever. 


THE DREAM 


193 


He killed her again in refusing to her son his chosen 
Dride, she who should continue the race. One could 
never wed the Church when one had once wedded 
woman. And, facing his immovable father, grown 
strangely tall in the awful silence, he flung out the 
words, “ perjurer, assassin.” Then, affrighted, totter¬ 
ing, he fled. 

When left alone, Monseigneur, as though struck by 
a knife full in the chest, turned on himself, and fell with 
both knees on his praying-stool. An awful rattle came 
from his throat. Ah! the miseries of the heart, the 
unconquerable weaknesses of the flesh. This woman, 
this ever resuscitating dead, he ever adored her as he 
had the first night when he kissed her white feet; and 
this son, he adored him as a legacy from her, a little 
of her life that she had left him; and this young girl, 
the little work-girl he had so harshly repulsed, he 
adored her also with the adoration that his son had for 
her. Now, all three made his nights nights of despair¬ 
ing. He refused to admit the bare thought of it, but 
how she had moved him in the cathedral, this little 
embroideress, so simple, with her hair of gold, her 
beautiful neck, fragrant with youth! And now he saw 
her again and again; she passed before his eyes, deli¬ 
cate, pure in her triumphal submissiveness. A remorse 
could not have overtaken him in a way more sure or 
more conquering. He could reject her with a loud 
voice, but he knew that henceforth she held his heart 
with her humble hands marred by the needle. While 
Felicien violently besought him, he had perceived them 
behind his fair head, these two worshiped women, her 
whom he mourned, and her who was dying for his child’s 
sake. They were all his love; he could not have said 
whence he drew the strength to resist, so thoroughly 
did his whole being yearn toward them. And ravaged, 
sobbing, not knowing where to find calm, he prayed 


The Dream 13 


194 


THE DREAM 


Heaven to give him the courage to tear out his heart, 
since that heart no longer belonged to God. 

Monseigneur remained on his knees till night When 
he reappeared, he was as white as virgin wax, tortured 
but still resolute. He could do nothing, he repeated 
the terrible word: “ Never! ” It was God who alone 
had the right to release him from his word; and God, 
implored, was silent. He must suffer. 

Two days went by, Felicien hardly left the front of 
the little house, mad with anguish, lying in wait for 
news. Each time any one came out, he almost fainted 
with fear. And it was thus that on the morning when 
Hubertine ran to the church to ask for the holy oils, he 
knew that Angelica could not live through the day. 
The Abbe Cornille was not there; he ran through the 
whole town to find him; putting in him his last hope of 
divine succor. Then, as he brought back the good 
priest, hope left him, he fell into a paroxysm of doubt 
and rage. What was to be done? How could he 
force Heaven to intervene? He flew to the See-house, 
once more forced open the doors; and the bishop for 
a moment was frightened at the incoherence of his 
words. Then he understood. Angelica was in throes 
of agony, she was awaiting the extreme unction; God 
alone could save her. The young man had come only 
to cry out his anguish, to break all ties with that 
abominable father, to cast that murder into his face. 
But Monseigneur listened without anger, very tall and 
very grave, his eyes suddenly lighted up by a ray, 
as though a voice at last had spoken. And he made a 
sign to him to walk on first, and he followed, saying: 

“ If God will, I will. ” 

Felicien felt the rush of a great thrill. His father 
consented, laying his own will aside, submissive to the 
supreme possibilities of a miracle. They were no 
more; God would act. The tears blinded him, while 
Monseigneur, in the vestry, took the holy oils from 
the hands of the Abbe Cornille. He accompanied 


THE DREAM 


195 


them, tottering; but, not daring to enter the room, he 
fell on both knees on the landing, before the wide-open 
door. 

“ Pax huic domui . ” 

“ Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.” 

Monseigneur had just laid upon the white table, be¬ 
tween the two tapers, the holy oils, tracing in the air 
the sign of the cross with the silver vessel. Then he 
took the crucifix from the hands of the abbe, and drew 
near the sick one, that she might kiss it. But Angel¬ 
ica was still unconscious, with shut lids and closed 
mouth, her hands stiffened, like one of these thin and 
rigid figures of stone stretched upon ancient tombs. 
For one instant he looked at her, and, seeing by her 
slight breath that she was not dead, put the crucifix to 
her lips. He waited, his face beaming the majesty of 
the minister of penitence, no human emotion showing 
itself. Not a shudder had run along her delicate pro¬ 
file and her hair of light. She was living, however, 
and that was sufficient for the redemption of sin. 

Then Monseigneur received from the abbe the holy- 
water font and the sprinkler; and, while the priest was 
presenting to him the open ritual, he cast the holy 
water upon the dying one, reading the Latin words: 

“ Asperges me , Domine y hysopo , et mundabor; lavabis 
me , et super nivem dealbabor 

The drops fell, dew-like; all the white bed was re¬ 
freshed by them. They were spread on the fingers, on 
the cheeks; but, one by one, they rolled away, as on 
insensible marble. And then the bishop turned toward 
the assistants, sprinkling them in turn. Hubert and 
Hubertine, kneeling side by side, in their need of ar¬ 
dent faith, bowed under that shower of benediction. 
And the bishop was blessing also the room, the furni¬ 
ture, the white walls, all this naked whiteness, when, 
passing near the door, he found himself face to face 
with his son cast down on the threshold, sobbing be¬ 
hind his burning hands. With a slow gesture, he raised 


THE DREAM 


196 

the sprinkler three times, and purified him with a soft 
rain. The holy water thus scattered around, was to 
drive away the evil spirits, flying by billions, invisible. 
At this moment a pale ray of winter sun stole to the 
bed; and a flight of atoms, nimble, specks of dust, 
seemed to live in it, innumerable, coming down from the 
angle of the window as though to bathe in their warm 
legion the cold hands of the dying. 

Coming back in front of the table, Monseigneur 
said the orison: 

“ Exandi nos. -” 

He did not hasten, although death was there among 
the curtains of old chintz; but he felt it to be without 
haste, it would wait. And, although in the swooning 
of her body, the child could not hear him, he spoke to 
her, asking: 

“ Have you nothing on your conscience that is pain¬ 
ing you? Confess your torments, unburden yourself, 
my daughter. ” 

Stretched out, she kept silent. After he had vainly 
given her time to answer, he commenced the exhorta¬ 
tion with the same full voice, without appearing to 
notice that not one of his words reached her. 

“ Commune with yourself, ask, from the bottom of 
your soul, the pardon of God. The sacrament will 
purify you, and give you new strength. Your eyes 
will become clear, your ears chaste, your nostrils fresh, 
your mouth holy, your hands innocent-” 

He said to the end what was to be said, his eyes 
upon her, and she scarcely breathed, not a lash of her 
closed eye-lids quivered. Then he commanded: 

“ Recite the symbol.” 

Having waited again, he recited it himself. 

“ Credo in unnm Denm .” 

“ Amen,” responded the abbe Cornille. One could 
still hear, on the landing, Felicien, weeping in heavy 
sobs, in the enervation of hope. And Hubert and 
Hubertine still prayed, with the same uplifted and 



THE DREAM 


197 


awed gesture, as though they had felt the unknown 
powers to be coming down. There was a pause, a 
faltering of prayer. And now the litanies of the 
ritual rolled on, the invocation of the saints, the flight 
of the Kyne eleison , calling upon all Heaven to succor 
unfortunate humanity. 

Then suddenly the voices fell, there was a profound 
silence. Monseigneur was washing his fingers under 
the few drops of water which the abbe poured out 
from the ewer. And, at last, he again took up the 
vessel of holy oils, raised its lid, and placed himself 
before the bed. It was the solemn approach of the 
sacrament, of this last sacrament, the efficacy of which 
effaces all sins mortal or venial, unpardoned, which re¬ 
main in the soul after the reception of other sacra¬ 
ments; ancient remains of forgotten sins, sins com¬ 
mitted unwillingly, sins of languor, the sin of allowing 
one’s self not to become firmly re-established in the 
grace of God. 

But whence were these sins to arise? Did they come, 
then, from the outside, in that ray of sunlight, with its 
dancing motes, which seemed to bring the germs of life 
up to that great royal bed, white and cold with the 
death of a virgin? 

Monseigneur had collected himself, his looks once 
more bent on Angelica, making sure that the little 
breath had not ceased. He still forbade himself all 
human emotion at seeing her so emaciated, of the beauty 
of an angel, already spiritualized. His thumb did not 
tremble when he dipped it in the holy oils, and com ¬ 
menced the unction of the five parts of the body where 
the senses reside — the five windows through which evil 
enters the soul. 

First on the eyes, on the closed lids, the right, then 
the left, the thumb lightly traced the sign of the cross. 

“ Per istem sanctam unctionem , et suam piissimam 
mis eric ordiant , indulgeat tibi Dominaus quidquid per 
visum deliquisti.” 


198 


THE DREAM 


And the sins of sight were absolved, the lascivious 
looks, the impure curiosities, the vanity of spectacles, 
harmful reading, tears wept over culpable griefs! And 
she knew no other book than The Legend , no other 
horizon than the apsis of the cathedral, which shutout 
to her the rest of the world. And she had wept only 
in the struggle of obedience against passion. 

The Abbe Cornille took one of the tufts of cotton¬ 
wool, wiped her two eyelids, and inclosed it in one of 
the white paper bags. 

Then Monseigneur anointed the ears on the lobes, 
transparent as mother-of-pearl, the right, the left, 
scarcely moistening them with the sign of the cross. 

“ Per istam sanctam unctionem , et suam piissimam 
misericordiam , indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per 
auditum deliquisti .” 

And all the abomination of hearing was redeemed, 
all the speeches, all the music that corrupts, and the 
backbitings, the calumnies, the blasphemies, the licen¬ 
tious talk listened to with relish, the lies of love striving 
to overcome duty, the profane songs exalting the flesh, 
the violins of the orchestras weeping with voluptuous¬ 
ness under the lofty candelabras. And that clois¬ 
tered maiden, in her utter isolation from the world, had 
never even heard the loose gossip of neighbors, the 
cursing of a driver whipping his horses; and she had in 
her ears no other music than that of holy hymns, the 
pealing of organs, the faltering of prayers, with which 
the cool little house vibrated through and through, 
under the protective wing of the old church. 

The abbe, having wiped the ears with a tuft of 
cotton-wool, placed it into another of the white paper 
bags. 

Next, Monseigneur reached the nostrils, the right, 
the left, fragile as two rose-petals, which his thumb 
purified with the sign of the cross. 

“ Per istam sanctam unctionem , et suam piissimam 


THE DREAM 


199 


misericordiam , indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per 
odoratum deliquisti. ” 

And the sense of smell returned to its pristine inno¬ 
cence, washed of all stain, not only of the carnal shame 
of perfumes, of the seduction of flowers whose breaths 
are too sweet, of these scattered fragrances of the air 
which lull the soul, but also of the faults of the inner 
sense, the evil examples given to others, the contagious 
pest of scandal. And, upright, pure, she had at last 
become a lily among lilies, a tall lily whose perfume 
fortified the weak, checked the strong. And, indeed, 
she had always been so beautifully delicate that she 
never could tolerate the smell of the ardent pinks, of 
the musky lilacs, of the feverish hyacinths, being at ease 
only amid calm florescences, myrtles and daisies. 

The abbe wiped the nostrils, slipped the tuft of 
cotton-wool into another of the white paper bags. 
Then Monseigneur, coming down to the closed mouth, 
which a slight breath scarcely opened, barred the lower 
lip with the sign of the cross. 

“ Per istam sanctam unctionem , et suam piissimam 
misericordiam , indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per 
gustum deliquisti .” 

And by divine grace the mouth was suddenly noth¬ 
ing but a chalice of innocence, for in these words had 
been proclaimed the pardon of the lower satisfactions, 
of taste, of greediness, of the sensual liking for wine 
and honey, especially the pardon of the crimes of the 
tongue, the universal culprit, the provoker, the poisoner, 
the quarreler, the author of the wars, of the errors, of 
the false speeches, by which Heaven itself is darkened. 
But greediness had never been her vice; she had come, 
like Elizabeth, to nourish herself without distinguish¬ 
ing the taste of food. And, if she had lived in a state 
of self-deception, it was her dream that had led her into 
it, the hope of the beyond, the consolation of the invis¬ 
ible, all that enchanted world that her ignorance created 
and that made of her a saint, 


200 


THE DREAM 


The abbe, having wiped the mouth, folded the tuft 
of cotton-wool in the fourth bag of white paper. 

Then Monseigneur, on the right and on the left, 
anointing the palms of the two little ivory hands open 
upon the sheet, washed away their sins with the sign 
of the cross. 

Per istam sanctam unctionem , et suam piissimam 
misericordiam , indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per 
tactum deliquisti. ” 

And the whole body was now white, washed of its 
last stains, those of touch, the most contaminating 
sense, the instigator of rapines, of batteries, of murders, 
not counting the sins of the other omitted parts, the 
breast, the loins and the feet, which this unction also 
redeemed, with all that burns and roars in the flesh, 
our tempers, our desires, our unruly passions, the 
charnel-houses in which we sink, the forbidden delights 
for which our members cry. 

And, since she had been there, dying in her victory, 
she had overcome her violence, her pride and her pas¬ 
sion as though she had brought into this world her share 
of the original sin but for the glory of overcoming it. 
And she did not even know that she had had desires, 
that her flesh had wept for love, that the great chill 
of her nights might have been culpable, so encumpassed 
was she in ignorance, her soul white, heavenly white. 

The abbe wiped her hands, hid the tuft of cotton¬ 
wool in the last tiny bag of white paper, and burned 
the five closed receptacles in the fire of the earthenware 
stove. 

The ceremony was over, Monseigneur was washing 
his fingers before saying the final orison. He had 
only to exhort once more the dying, whilst placing in 
her hand the symbolic taper, to drive away the demons, 
and to proclaim how she had recovered her baptismal 
innocence. But she remained still rigid, her eyes shut, 
her mouth closed, as dead. The holy oils had purified 
her body, the signs of the cross had left their marks 


THE DREAM 


201 


on the five windows of the soul, without causing the 
wave of life to rise to her cheeks. Implored, hoped 
for, the prodigy had not come. Hubert and 
Hubertine, still kneeling side by side, no longer 
prayed, looking on with fixed eyes, so eagerly that 
one would have said they had both been posed there 
forever, like the memorial figures which await the 
resurrection in the corner of some ancient stained win¬ 
dow. Felicien had dragged himself on his knees to 
the very door, having ceased sobbing, his head erect, 
come, he also, to see, maddened at the deafness of 
God. 

A last time Monseigeur approached the bed, fol¬ 
lowed by the Abbe Cornille, who held, ready lighted, 
the taper that was to be placed in the hands of the sick 
one. And the bishop, intent on proceeding to the end 
of the rite, so as to give God time to act, pronounced 
the formula: 

“ Accipe lampadem ardentem , custodi unctionem tuam y 
utcum Dominus ad judicandum venerit , possis occur- 
rere ei cum omnibus sanctis , et vivas in soecula scecu- 
lorum. ” 

“ Amen,” responded the abbe. 

But, when they attempted to open Angelica’s hand 
to clasp it around the taper, the inert hand escaped 
them, falling back upon her bosom. 

Then Monseigneur was seized with a great trem¬ 
bling. It was the emotion, long combated, which 
overflowed within him, bearing away the last sacerdo¬ 
tal rigidity. He had loved her, this child, from the 
day she had knelt sobbing at his knees, pure, fragrant 
with the sweetness of youth. At this hour she was 
piteous, with this paleness of the tomb, of so sad 
a beauty that he could not turn his eyes to the bed, 
without his heart being secretly flooded with grief. 
At last he ceased to contain himself, two big tears 
welled between his lids, ran down his cheeks. She 


202 


THE DREAM 


should not die thus, she had conquered him by her 
charm in death. 

And Monseigneur, remembering the miracles of his 
race, this power of healing that Heaven had given his 
people, thought that doubtless God was awaiting his 
fatherly consent. He invoked Saint Agnes, before 
whom all his house had made their devotions, and, like 
Jean V. d’Hautecoeur praying at the beside of the 
plague-stricken and kissing them, he prayed, and, 
stooping, kissed Angelica on the mouth. 

“ If God will, I will.” 

At once Angelica raised her lids. She looked at 
him without surprise, awakened from her long swoon, 
and her lips, warm with the kiss, smiled. These were 
the things that were to be realized; perhaps she had 
just dreamed them again, thinking it very natural that 
Monseigneur should be there, to betroth her to Feli- 
cien, since the hour was come. And of herself she 
sat up, amid the great royal bed. 

The bishop, beaming, the light of the prodigy shin¬ 
ing in his eyes, repeated the formula: 

“ Accipe lampadem ardentem. -” 

“ Amen,” responded the abbe 

Angelica had taken the lighted taper, and, with a 
firm hand, held it erect. Her life had come back, the 
flame burned very clear, driving away the spirits of the 
night. 

A great cry pierced the room, Felicien had arisen, as 
though uplifted by the wind of miracle; while the 
Huberts, by the same gust, remained kneeling, with 
staring eyes, bewildered faces, in the presence of what 
they had just witnessed. The bed appeared to them 
wrapped in shining light, a radiance rose in the sun¬ 
beams, white and feathery-like. And the white walls, 
all the white room, still glistened like snow. In the 
midst, like a lily refreshed and uplifted on its stem, 
Angelica seemed to be the source of this effulgent 
light. Her hair of fine gold crowned her with an 



THE DREAM 


203 


aureole, her violet eyes shone divinely, a great 
splendor of life beamed from her pure countenance. 
And Felicien, seeing her saved, dazed by this grace 
which was vouchsafed them, approached, and knelt at 
the bed-side. 

“Ah! beloved soul, you recognize us, you live. —] 
am yours, my father wills it since God wills it.” 

She inclined her head, she gave a bright smile. 

“ Oh! I knew; I was waiting. All that I have seen, 
must be.” 

But Monseigneur, who had recovered his serene 
hauteur, laid once more to her lips the crucifix, which 
she this time kissed, as a submissive child. Then, with 
a great sweep of his hand, over all the room, over all 
the heads, he gave the last blessings, while the Hu¬ 
berts and the abbe Cornille wept. 

Felicien had taken the hand of Angelica, and, in the 
other little hand, the taper of innocence was now 
burning,very high. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The marriage was fixed for the first days in March. 
But Angelica remained very feeble in spite of the joy 
that shone from her whole being. She had wished to 
come down again to the work-shop from the first week 
of her convalescence, insisting upon finishing the panel 
of bas-relief embroidery for the seat of Monseigneur. 
It was her last work-girl’s task, she said gayly; one did 
not leave an order thus half done. But, soon worn out 
by this effort, she was forced once more to keep to her 
room. She lived there, smiling, and if not recovering 
her former full health, still white and ethereal, like the 
holy oils, going and coming with a fairy step, resting, 
dreamy, for hours, when she had made that long jour- 



204 


THE DREAM 


ney — from her table to the window. And the mar¬ 
riage had to be postponed; they decided to await her 
complete recovery, which, with such tender mursing, 
could not long be delayed. 

Each afternoon, Felicien went up to see her, Hubert 
and Hubertine were there; adorable hours were passed 
together; the same projects were made again and again, 
continually. Ensconced in her high chair, she showed 
herself of a laughing vivacity, thrilling with life, the 
first to speak of the days of their coming life, of Haute- 
cceur to be restored, of all these joys to be experienced. 
One could have truly said then that she -was saved, 
steadily gaining strength, in the early spring, which 
was coming in, each day warmer, through the open 
windows. Only when she was alone did she fall again 
into the profound gravity of her dreams, at other times 
always afraid of being noticed. At night the voices 
still hovered about her; then it was like an appeal of 
the earth around her; in her, also, light was beaming; 
she understood that the miracle continued solely for 
the realization of her dream. Was she not already 
dead, living only among apparitions, thanks to a res¬ 
pite granted by the things? This, in her hours of sol¬ 
itude, rocked her with an infinite sweetness, without 
regret at the idea of being carried away in her joy, 
certain always of going to the end of her happiness. 
Evil would wait. Her great light-heartedness was 
made simply more serious by it; she abandoned herself, 
inert, no longer conscious of her body, flying amid 
pure delights; and it was not till she heard Hubert 
opening the door or Felicien coming in to see her, that 
she drew herself up, feigning recovered health, chat¬ 
ting, with laughter, of their years of housekeeping, 
very far off, in the dim future. 

Toward the end of March, Angelica seemed more 
excited, more high-strung. Twice when quite alone, 
she had fainted. One morning she had fallen at the 
foot of her bed, just as Hubert was bringing her a cup 


THE DREAM 


205 


of milk; and, to deceive him, she made merry on the 
floor, telling him that she was looking fora lost needle. 
Then, the next day, she showed herself very joyous, 
she spoke of hastening the marriage, to set it for mid- 
April. They all protested; she was still so weak, why 
not wait? There was no cause for hurry. But she 
became feverish, restless; it must be now at once, at 
once. Hubertine, surprised, felt suspicious at such 
haste, looked at her a moment turning paler at the 
breath of cold that was brushing past her. Presently 
the dear invalid grew calmer, in her tender wish of 
misleading the others, she who knew she was fated. 
Hubert and Felicien, in continual adoration, had seen 
nothing, had felt nothing. And, rising by a supreme 
effort of will, going and coming with her old elastic 
step, she was so bewitching; she said she would be so 
happy, that the ceremony would surely complete the 
cure. 

Moreover, Monseigneur should decide. And when, 
that very evening, the bishop was there, she explained 
to him her desires, her eyes in his, without withdraw¬ 
ing her look from him, her voice so sweet that beneath 
the words trembled the ardent supplication she dared 
not speak out. Monseigneur knew, and he understood. 
The marriage was fixed for mid-April. 

Then their life grew bustling, great preparations 
were begun. Hubert, in spite of his official guardianship, 
had to ask the consent of the Director of Public Assist¬ 
ance, who still represented the family council, Angelica 
not being of age; and Monsieur Grandsire, the justice 
of the peace, took charge of these details, in order to 
relieve the young girl and Felicien from the painful side 
of it. But the girl, feeling that something was being 
hidden from her, asked one day that her ward-book be 
brought up to her, wishing to give it herself to her 
betrothed. She lived now in such a state of perfect 
humility, that she wished him to know well the base¬ 
ness from which he was taking her, raising her up to 


20 6 


THE DREAM 


the glory of his legendary name and his great fortune. 
These were her parchments, her own, this administra¬ 
tive document, this entry, where there was but a date 
followed by a number. She turned over its leaves 
once more, then gave it to him without an appearance 
of confusion, happy in that she was nothing, and he 
was making her everything. He was deeply touched 
by this, and, kneeling down, kissed her hands with 
tears, as though it were she that had given him the 
only true gift, the royal gift of her heart. 

The preparations, for two weeks, occupied all Beau¬ 
mont; made a commotion in the higher and lower 
town. Twenty women, they said, worked day and 
night on the trousseau. The wedding dress, alone, 
occupied three of them; there would be wedding pres¬ 
ents from the bridegroom to the bride to the value of 
a million; a flow of laces, of velvets, of satins, of silks, 
rivers of gems, queenly diamonds. But that which 
especially stirred the people was the widespread 
alms, the bride wishing to give the poor as much as 
was given to her, another million thus showered upon 
the neighborhood in a rain of gold. At last she could 
satisfy her old need of charitable giving, in the prodi¬ 
gality of a dream, with open hands,causing a river of 
riches to flow upon the poor, a flood of happiness. 
From the little room, white and bare, from the old 
arm-chair, where she was chained, she laughed in rap¬ 
tures, when the Abbe Cornille brought her the list of 
distribution. More, more! They never distributed 
enough. She would have wished Father Mascart sitting 
before princely feasts, the Chouteaux living in the lux¬ 
ury of a palace, Mother Gabet cured and rejuvenated 
by the sheer force of money; and the Lemballeuses, 
the mother and the three daughters, she would have 
loaded them with silk dresses and jewels. The hail of 
golden pieces redoubled on the town, as in fairy tales, 
even above the daily necessities, for the beauty and 
the joy of it, for the triumphal glory of gold, thrown, 


THE DREAM 20/ 

free-handed, falling to the streets, and shining in the 
great sun of charity. 

At last, on the eve of the great day, all was ready. 
Felicien had bought, behind the See-house, in the “ rue 
Magloire,” an ancient mansion, and had it all refitted 
sumptuously. Large rooms, ornamented with mag¬ 
nificent hangings, filled with most precious furniture 
— a drawing-room in old tapestries, a blue boudoir, 
soft as a morning sky, a bed-room like a nest of white 
silk and white lace, nothing but white, fairy-like, the 
very thrill of light. But Angelica, whom a carriage 
was to convey there, had constantly refused to go and 
see the marvels. She listened to the recital of it all 
with an enchanted smile, but she gave no orders, she 
did not wish to busy herself about the arrangements. 
No, no; it was going on far away, in that unknown 
world of which she was still so ignorant. Since those 
who loved her prepared for her this happiness so ten¬ 
derly, she desired to enter it as a princess come from 
chimerical lands enters the kingdom of the real where 
she is to reign. And, in the same way, she forbade 
herself to know the wedding gifts which were also over 
there, the trousseau of fine linen, marked with her 
marchioness’ coronet, the gala toilettes, heavy with 
embroideries, the ancient jewels, like a ponderous 
cathedral treasure, and the modern jewels, the prodigies 
of delicate settings, a shower of brilliants like drops of 
the purest water. It was sufficient for the victory of her 
dream that this fortune was awaiting her at home, 
radiant in the coming reality of life. The wedding 
dress alone was brought to her the morning of the 
marriage. 

That morning, on awakening, in her great bed, An¬ 
gelica, still alone, had a minute of desperate faintness, 
fearing that she would not be able to stand! She tried, 
and felt her knees give way ; and, giving the lie to the 
valiant serenity which she had shown for weeks, an 
awful anguish, the last, cried from her whole body. 


208 


THE DREAM 


Then, when she saw Hubertine come in, full of joy, 
she was surprised at being able to walk; surely it was 
no longer her own strength that lifted'her up ; assist¬ 
ance had come to her from the invisible, loving hands 
were upholding her. Her mother dressed her. She 
weighed nothing ; she was so light that Hubertine, in 
her merriment, began to make fun of it, bidding her 
not to move unless she wished to fly away. And, 
whilst the toilette of the bride lasted, the fresh little 
house of the Huberts, ensconced in the flank of the 
Cathedral, was thrilled with the enormous throbbing of 
the giant building filled with the buzzing of the ap¬ 
proaching ceremony, with the restless activity of the 
clergy, especially the swinging of the bells, a con¬ 
tinued gleeful pealing that made the old stones vibrate. 

In the upper town, for an hour, the bells had been 
ringing, as for the great church-feasts, a triumphal 
chime. The sun had risen radiant, a limpid April 
morning, a shower of vernal rays, alive with the 
sonorous summons that had called out the inhabitants. 
All Beaumont was on hand for the marriage of the little 
embroideress, whom all hearts seemed to make their 
own, full of her dreams of royal fortune. This beauti¬ 
ful sun, which flooded the streets, was like the rain of 
gold, the alms of the fairy-tales, pouring from her frail 
hands. And, under this joy of dazzling light, the 
crowd was massing toward the cathedral, filling the 
side-aisles, overflowing the Place du Cloitre. There 
rose the great fa9ade, like a bouquet of stone-hewn 
flowers, the ultra-ornate Gothic rising above the severe 
Romanesque course. From the towers the bells sent 
down their sonorous waves of sound, whilst the fa9ade 
itself shone as the glorification of these nuptials, of 
this flight of the girl of poverty along the path of 
miracle. Indeed, it all seemed to shoot forward and 
flame up from the lace-like fret-work, from the lily¬ 
shaped florescence of colonnettes, of balustrades, of blind 
arches, to the niches of saints surmounted by canopies, 


THE DREAM 


209 


to the gables hollowed out in trefoils, with their cross- 
lets and fleurons, to the immense roses, blooming in 
the mystic radiance of their mullions. 

At ten o’clock the organs pealed, and Angelica and 
Felicien came in, slowly pacing toward the high altar, 
between the packed ranks of the crowd, the sea of 
heads undulating in a breath of sympathetic admi¬ 
ration. 

He, very much moved, walked proud and grave, in 
the blonde beauty of a young god, made still more 
slender by the severity of the black coat. But to her, 
to her first of all, went all the hearts — to her, so 
adorable, so divine, with a charm of vision-like mys¬ 
tery. Her robe was of white moire, simply covered 
with old Mechlin lace, held in place by pearls, a perfect 
garniture of the finest pearls outlining the ruches of the 
corsage and the flounces of the skirt. A veil of old 
point d' Angleterre, fastened upon the head by a triple 
crown of pearls, enveloped her, fell to her feet. And 
nothing else, not a flower, not a jewel, nothing but this 
light wave, this quivering- cloud, which seemed to set 
in a fluttering of wings her sweet little figure, so much 
like a stained-glass virgin, with her eyes of violet and 
her hair of gold. 

Two great chairs of crimson velvet awaited Angelica 
and Felicien before the altar; and, behind, close to 
them, while the organs swelled out their phrase of wel¬ 
come, Hubert and Hubertine knelt on the prayer-stools 
appointed for the family. The evening before they 
had felt a great joy, which still transported them, 
unable to express enough thanks for their own happi¬ 
ness, which was adding itself to that of their daughter. 
Hubertine, having gone to the cemetery once more, in 
the sad thought of their solitude when that beloved 
daughter would be taken away from them, had long 
entreated her mother; and, all at once, a shock within 
her had uplifted her, quivering, answered at last. From 
The Dream 14. 


210 


THE DREAM 


the depths of the earth, after thirty years, the obsti¬ 
nate dead forgave, sent them the child of pardon, so 
ardently desired and expected. Was it the reward of 
their charity to this poor creature of misery, picked up 
on that stormy morning at the door of the cathedral, 
to-day married to a prince in all the gorgeous pomp of 
the great ceremonies? They remained on their bended 
knees, without uttered words of prayer, ravished with 
gratitude, all their being exhaling an infinite thanks¬ 
giving. And, from the other side of the nave, from 
his high episcopal seat, Monseigneur looked on, he 
also one of the family, full of the majesty of the God 
whom he represented. He sat there resplendent in the 
glory of his sacred vestments, his face of a serene 
hauteur, as though disengaged from the passions of this 
world, while the two angels of the panels of embroid¬ 
ery above his head upheld the dazzling arms of the 
Hautecceurs. 

Then the solemnity began. All the clergy were pres¬ 
ent; priests had come from far-away parishes to do 
honor to their bishop. In this white flood of surplices 
overflowing the choir gates, glittered the golden copes 
of the singers, the red robes of the choristers. The 
eternal night of the side-aisles, under the weight of 
the heavy Romanesque chapels, was dimly lighted this 
morning by the limpid April sun, illuminating the 
stained glass panels; and there shone a glow of jewels, 
a sacred budding of life-like gigantic flowers. But the 
shadow of the nave especially flamed with a swarming 
of tapers, of tapers as many as the stars in a summer 
sky; in the center the high altar was ablaze with them, 
the ardent, symbolic bush, glowing with the fire of 
souls; and there were some in the flambeaux, in the 
cressets, in the sconces; and, before the betrothed, 
two gigantic sun-like candelabra threw up their 
curved branches. Clumps of green plants changed 
the choir into a living garden that bloomed in great 
tufts of white azaleas, white camellias, white lilacs. To 


THE DREAM 


211 


the end of the apsis, sparkled vistas of gold and silver; 
glimpses of robes of velvet and silk, a far-off dazzle of 
altars, amid the masses of somber verdure. And 
above this glistering light the nave shot up, the four 
enormous pillars of the transept upholding the vault 
over the trembling breath of these hundreds of little 
flames, which gave a sort of tremor to the open day¬ 
light rushing through the high Gothic windows. 

Angelica had wished to be married by the good 
Abbe Cornille, and when she saw him advance in his 
surplice and white stole, followed by two clerks, she 
gave a smile. So there came at last the triumphal 
realization of her dream; she was wedding fortune, 
beauty, power, beyond all hopes. The church sang 
through its organs, beamed through its tapers, lived 
through its congregation of worshipers and priests. 
Never had the antique structure been resplendent with 
a more sovereign pomp, as though widened in its sacred 
luxury by a new wealth of delights. And Angelica 
smiled, knowing she had death within her amid all this 
glorious joy, celebrating her victory. On entering she 
had cast a look toward the Hautecoeur chapel, where 
slept Laurette and Balbine, the Blessed Dead, borne 
away so young in the full happiness of love. At this 
final hour she was perfect, victorious over herself, cor¬ 
rected, renewed, without even the passion for the pride 
of her triumph, resigned to this upward flight of her 
being amidst the hosanna of her huge friend, the 
cathedral. When she knelt, it was as a most humble 
and most submissive servant, wholly washed from the 
original sin, and feeling so deeply joyful in this state of 
obedient renouncing. 

The Abbe Cornille, after having gone up to the altar, 
had just come back from it. He began his exhortation 
in a loud voice, citing as an example the marriage that 
Jesus had contracted with the Church. He spoke of 
the future, of the days to be lived in faith, of the 
children that should be brought up as Christians; and 


212 


THE DREAM 


at last, once more in the presence of this hope, Angel¬ 
ica smiled; while Felicien, near her, felt a trembling at 
the idea of all this bliss he now thought assured. 
Then came the consecrated questions of the ritual, the 
responses that bind one for a lifetime, the decisive 
“ Yes,” which she pronounced with emotion, from the 
bottom of 3 ier heart, which he spoke louder, with a 
tender gravity. The irrevocable was done, the priest 
had laid their right hands one in the other, in murmur¬ 
ing the irrevocable formula: “ Ego conjungo vos in 
matrimonium , in nomine Patn , et Filii , et Spiriti 
Sancti. ” 

But the ring remained to be blessed, the ring, which 
is the symbol of inviolable fidelity, of the eternity of 
the nuptial bond; and it took some time. First, in the 
silver basin, over the golden ring, the priest waved the 
sprinkler with the sign of the cross. “ Benedice , 
Domine , annulum hunc ”—then he presented it to 
the husband, to testify to him that thus did the Church 
bind and seal his heart, where no other woman should 
ever enter, and the husband set it on the finger of the 
wife, to teach her in turn that, from henceforth, he 
alone among men existed for her. It was the token 
of the close, endless union, the sign of dependence 
worn by the bride, which would constantly recall to 
her her plighted faith; it was also the promise of a 
long course of years to be passed together, as though 
this little circlet of gold bound them one to the other 
till the grave. And while the priest, the final orisons 
recited, exhorted the spouses once more, Angelica had 
still her clear smile of renunciation, she who knew. 

But the organs had started their joyous outburst, as 
the Abbe Cornille withdrew to the vestry-room, 
between his assistants. Monseigneur, motionless till 
then, in his majesty, bent upon the couple his eagle 
eyes, very softly. 

Remaining on their knees, the Huberts had lifted 
their heads, blinded by happy tears. And the thunder- 


THE DREAM 


213 


ous acclaim of the organs rolled on, losing itself in a 
hail of little high notes, which rained under the vaults, 
like the sky-lark’s morning song. A long quiver, a 
tender tremor, agitated the flock of the faithful, massed 
in the nave and the side-aisles. The church, decked 
with flowers, glistening with tapers, shone out in the 
joy of the sacrament. 

Then there came two more hours of sovereign pomp, 
the mass was sung, incense was burned. The cele¬ 
brant had appeared vested in the white chasuble, 
escorted by the ceremoniary, the two thuriferi bearing 
the censers and the cymbiform vessels,the two acolytes 
holding the two tall golden candlesticks alight. And 
the presence of Monseigneur complicated the rite, the 
bows, the kisses. At every minute the inclinations, 
the genuflections, made the wings of the surplices 
flutter. At times, in the old stalls, alive with sculp¬ 
tures, the whole chapter rose; and it was, at other 
instants, as though there came a breath of Heaven, 
which at a gust prostrated the priestly crowd filling 
the upper apsis. The celebrant chanted at the altar, 
then ceased, sitting down, while the choir, in turn, 
slowly continued the grave phrases of the chanter — 
the clear notes of the choristers rising light, aerial, like 
unto the flutes of the archangels. A voice, most 
beautiful, most pure, filled the nave, a young girl’s 
voice, delicious to hear, the voice, it was said, of 
Mademoiselle Claire de Voincourt, who had begged to 
be allowed to sing at these nuptials of the miracle. 
The organ accompanied her with a great sigh of ten¬ 
derness, the serenity of a good and happy soul. There 
were sudden silences, then the organs burst out anew, 
in formidable rollings, while the ceremoniary brought 
back the acolytes with their candlesticks, led the 
thuriferi to the celebrant, who blessed the incense in 
the cymbiform vessels. And, at stated moments, the 
flight of the censers rose, with a bright glint and a 
silver tinkling of chains. An odoriferous haze blued 


214 


THE DREAM 


the air as they were waiving the censers toward the 
bishop, the clergy, the altar, the gospel, toward each 
person and each thing in turn, toward the deepening 
masses of the people, in three sweeps, to the right, to 
the left, and in front. 

Angelica and Felicien, on their knees, devoutly 
listened to the mass, that mystic consummation of the 
marriage of Jesus and the Church. Into the hand of 
each had been put a glowing candle, symbol of virginity 
preserved since baptism. After the dominical orison, 
they had remained under the veil, the sign of submis¬ 
sion, of chastity, of modesty, while the priest, standing 
at the right hand side of the altar, read the prescribed 
prayers. They still held the burning candles, which 
are also a warning to think of death, even in the just 
joys of nuptials. And now it was all finished; the 
offering had been received, the celebrant had retired, 
accompanied by the ceremoniary, the thuriferi and the 
acolytes, having prayed God to bless the wedded pair, 
so that they might see their children growing and 
multiplying until the third and fourth generation. 

At this moment the entire cathedral broke forth in 
joyful exultation. The organs filled the lofty vessel 
with a triumphal march, in such thundering acclaim that 
the old edifice trembled. Thrilled, the crowd remained 
standing, all on tip-toe to see the beautiful sight; 
women mounted chairs; there were compact rows of 
heads to the very end of the dark chapels of the collat¬ 
erals; and all that multitude smiled with beating heart. 
The thousands of tapers, in that final farewell, seemed 
to burn higher, lengthening out their flames, tongues 
of fire that made the vaults shimmer. There arose a 
last hosanna of the clergy, in the flowers and verdure, 
amidst the ornaments and the sacred vases. And, all 
at once, the main doors beneath the organs were flung 
wide open, piercing the walls of the church with a glar¬ 
ing sheet of light. It was the clear April morning, the 
living sun of spring, the Place du Cloitre with its gay, 


THE DREAM 


215 


white houses; and there, another crowd awaiting the 
bridal pair, still more numerous, of a more impatient 
sympathy, already tossing to and fro with gestures and 
acclamations. The tapers paled, the organs covered 
with their thunder the noises of the street. 

At a slow pace, between the double hedge of the 
faithful, Angelica andFelicien moved toward the door. 
Now after the triumph, she was emerging from the 
dream, she was walking toward the beyond, to enter 
into reality. That porch of crude light opened upon 
the world of which she was still ignorant, and she 
slackened her pace, and she gazed upon the busy- 
houses, upon the tumultuous crowd, upon al that 
which claimed her and saluted her. Her feebleness 
was so great that her husband had almost to carry her. 
But still, she smiled, she thought of that princely 
mansion, full of jewels and queenly attire where the 
nuptial chamber awaited her, all of white silk. 

suffocation half stopped her; yet she had the strength 

to take a few steps more. Her look fell upon the ri g 
slipped upon her finger. She smiled at that eternal 
bond Then, on the threshold of that great door, just 
before the steps which led down to the place, she tot¬ 
tered. Had she not reached the zenith of bliss. Was 
it not there that the joy of life was to end? She raised 
herself in a last effort, she brought her lips to the lips 
of Felicien. And, in that kiss, she died 

But death came without sadness. _ Monseigneur, 
with his great gesture of pastoral benediction, was aid¬ 
ing that soul to free itself; himself calmed, recon¬ 
quered by the divine abstraction. The Huberts, for¬ 
given, returning into existence, had the ecstatic sensa 

tion that a dream was closing. The whole cathe , 
the whole town, were filled with the spirit of the 
sacred feasts. The organs pealed out\cmder,tore^el 
rang out in fuller sweep, the crowdacclaimedmorerev- 
erently. this couple of love, at the threshold of the 
mystic church, under the glory of the vernal sun. Oh! 


216 


THE DREAM 


it was indeed a triumphal flight! Angelica, happy, 
pure, uplifted, borne away in the realization of her 
dream, ravished from the dark Romanesque chapels, 
from the dazzling Gothic vaults, with their antique 
vestiges of gold and paintings, up to the full paradise 
of the Legend. 

And Felicien held but an empty treasure, very soft 
and very tender—her wedding robe, all lace and 
pearls, the handful of light feathers, still warm, of a 
bird. For long, indeed, had he felt that he possessed 
only a shadow. The vision, come from the invisible, 
had returned to the invisible. It had been but an 
apparition, which now faded away with the illusion it 
had brought to life. All is but a dream. And, at the 
summit of bliss, Angelica had disappeared in the light 
breath of a kiss. 


THE END. 


The “Popular” Series. 


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NANA.....By Emile Zola 

LA TERRE.By Emils Zola 

L’ASSOMMOIR...By Emile Zola 

NANA’S DAUGHTER; A Reply to *Nana" ......By Emile Zola 

THE DREAM...By Emile Zola 

POT BOUILLE (Piping Hot)........By Emile Zola 

THE LADIES’ PARADISE.....By Emile Zola 

G. A. R.; or, How She Married His Double ...By Edward R. Roe 

DR. CALDWELL; r, The Trai o* the Serpent.By Edward R. Roe 

MAY AND JUNE.By Edward R. Roe 

FROM THE BEATEN PATH.By Edward R. Roe 

GOD REIGNS. By I.dward R. Roe 

A DARK SECRET.By Lva Cathahink Clapp 

A WOMAN’S LOVE.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

HER FAT..L SIN . By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

THE TRAGEDY OF REDMOUNT.By iIrs. M. L. Holmes 

THE WIFE'S SECRET.By Mrs. M E. Holmes 

FOR A WOMAN’S SAKE.By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

A HEARTLESS WOMAN.By M s. M. E. Holmes 

A DESr^RATE WOMAN. By Mrs. M. E. Holmes 

WHO WILL SAVE HER. By Mrs. M E. Holmes 

THE MISSING RUBIES .By Sarah Doudney 

AN ACTOR’S WIFE ...By George Moore 

THE BLUE VEIL .By F. Du Boisgobey 

AGAINST FATE ....By Mrs M v L. Rayne 

A GOLDEN HEART. .By Bertha M. Clay 

COURT ROYAL; or, Pawn Ticket No. 210 .By Baring-Gould 

TWELVE STEPS TOWARD HEAVEN .By Walter B. Adkins 

GOTHAM AND THE GOTHAMITES; or. The Gay Girls 

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LINK BY LINK; or, The Chain of Evidence.B Nathan D. Urner 

MARKED FOR LIFE; or, The Gambler’s Fate.By A, F Pinkerton 

DYKE DARREL, the Railroad Detective.By A. F. Pinkerton 

THE GREAT TRUNK TRAGEDY; or, The St. Louis Maxvell- 

PrellerCase .^y Morris Redwing 


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Nana’s Daughter, 

A STORY OF PARISIAN LIFE 

-BY- 

ALFRED SIRVEN and HENRI LEVERDIER, 

With a letter from the authors to M. Emile Zola. 

TRANSUITED FROM THE 25th FRENCH EDITION. 


When M. Emile Zola wrote “ Nana,” the world thought that no truer 
photograph of the kaleidoscopic life which is so truly and essentially 
Parisian could be brought out by any other author. It remained for 
Alfred Sirven and Henri Leverdier to combine French wit, ingenuity and 
realistic word-painting to disapprove this opinion. 

“ Nana’s Daughter,” by these gentlemen, faithfully portrays, with 
graphic lights and shadows, that zone of Parisian life from which the bean 
monde gathers all that is chic , Frenchy and worldly. 

The character of Nana’s daughter, in vivid contrast to her mother, 
that queen of the demi-monde> shines like a pure crystal amid the sordid 
surroundings and demoniacal plots which at times almost engulphed her, 
and, irredescent to the last, remains untarnished and spotless, a tribute to 
virtue. 

The book maintains its thrilling interest to the very end. The charao 
ters are skillfully sketched, and the plot most interestingly complicated. 


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RMILJB. ZLOLaA’S 


Powerful Realistic Novels 


FTER reading Zola’s novels it seems as if in all others, even 



in the truest there were a veil between the reader and the 
things described, and there is present to our mind the same differ¬ 
ence as exists between the representations of human faces on canvas 
and the reflection of the same faces in the mirror. It is like finding 
truth for the first time .”—Signor de Amicis. 

NANA. Translated from the 127th French edition. 

L’ASSOMMOIR. Translated from the 97th French edition. 

POT BOUILLEI (Piping Hot!). Translated from the 
87th French edition. 

THE LADIES’ PARADISE. Translated from the 
84th French edition, 

LA TERRE. M. Zola says of this, one of his latest works, 
"I have endeavored to deal with the French peasant in this book, 
just as I dealt with the Paris workman in “ L’Assommoir.” I have 
endeavored to write his history, to describe his manners, passions 
and sorrows in the fatal situations and circumstances in which he 
finds himself.” 

THE DREAM. Zola’s latest work—just published. 


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GOD REIGNS 


A SERIES OF LAY SERMONS. 


By EDWARD REYNOLDS ROE, M.D. 


Bound in Extra English Silk Cloth, Embossed in Ink and Gold. 
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. is a sharp and fair critic, and his Lay Sermons deserve a place in 

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philosophy .”—Chicago Tribune. 

•ii‘u T r e w j rk is reGommen ded to thoughtful and analytical minds, and in it 
will be found that enjoyment which the pure, searching soul hungers for. The 
work is of free, open print, and is elegantly bound .”—New York Times. 

, ,.“ T J^ e . se Sermons show great intelligence, and are to be warmly recommend¬ 
ed .—Chicago Journal. 

“ The Sermons are liberal and reasonable in discussing Darwin and Spencer 
and repay careful reading .”—Brooklyn Eagle. 1 

.. “.The Janguage is simple and devout, and the logic incisive and unanswer¬ 
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“ By a thoughtful perusal of this excellent little book, the scales will fall from 
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From the Beaten Path 

By EDWARD R. ROE , 

Author of "May and June,** "Brought to Bay,** etc. 


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MAY AND JUNE. 

A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 

By EDWARD R. ROE, 

AUTHOR OF “FROM THE BEATEN PATH,*' “BROUGHT TO BAY,** ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED. 


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# “ May and June ” should be read by every one who enjoys a well-written, inter¬ 
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has no dull pages.”— Chicago Inter Ocean. 

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“ A historical tale pf great interest.”— Syracuse Herald. 

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G. A. R. 

Or, How She Married His Double. 


By EDWARD R. ROE. 


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